


Sea Glass

by fontainefriction



Category: Game Grumps, Youtube RPF
Genre: Crime AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fontainefriction/pseuds/fontainefriction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: FBI medical examiner Dan has overcome drugs, a medical degree, and serial killers. Small town roots shouldn't faze him, but Fontaine's Sheriff Mark has found the key in Dan's past that drags him back. This hometown reunion has a body count.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ch. 1

Mark crouched beside the corpse on the bathroom floor of the Fontaine Diner, staring at it with a kind of sick fascination. He’d spent 13 years as a police officer and he had seen only two dead bodies before, both the result of drunk driving.

This was something completely different.

The room was small; Fontaine Diner’s men’s room had a urinal, a toilet, a sink, a hand drier, and a trashcan, all in a hideous shade of baby blue. The body had been discovered on its stomach in the middle of the room, by one of the senior citizens taking advantage of the diner’s Early Bird special.

It was difficult to remember there was a person’s broken body under the gouts of blood. If the body’s shirt or shorts had ever had any color or pattern other than maroon, it was impossible to make out. Rivulets of crimson drying to rust brown had followed the outline of the tiny tiles on the floor. It made shapes like boxy hieroglyphics that radiated out from the body.

The congealing blood was going to be hell to get out of the grout.

The body’s right arm laid alongside the torso, but its left arm was reaching stiffly over its head, the left fist clenched tight.

After taking the necessary crime scene photos, Mark had his men roll the body over gingerly.

His best officer, his best friend, used a pen to slide a blood-slicked wallet out of the dead man’s pocket.

“This is right shit, Sheriff. You’re not gonna like this.”

Jack’s accent had faded since Mark first met him, but the way he spoke still echoed his Irish roots on occasion, especially when he was nervous.

“I already don’t like this,” Mark stood, wincing as his side twinged. “I don’t even know where to begin with this case. The scene looks clean, no one witnessed whatever happened here, and this restroom smells like something crawled up from the sewer to die. All I can hope is maybe the coroner will be able to make some sense of this body.”

“That’s what you won’t like- this is the coroner.”

Mark could feel an oncoming migraine. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“George Benson, M.E.,” Jack read from the license he held between two gloved fingers.

“So what do we do, send him to County?” Mark gestured to the mess on the floor. He couldn’t even look at the body in the middle of it.

Jack shrugged. “That would cost the department a pretty penny.”

“We don’t have much of a choice since our coroner is dead,” Mark pulled off his gloves and raked his hand through his hair, frustrated.

Jack stood and slid Benson’s wallet into an evidence bag proffered by another uniform working the crime scene. He was frowning, his head cocked to one side as he pulled off his gloves.

“Hey, someone from our high school became a medical examiner, right?” Jack began snapping his fingers incessantly.

“What?” Mark stopped calculating how much County was going to charge him to sneer down their noses at his men on their own crime scene to fully face how ridiculous the words out of Jack’s mouth were.

“Jack, you didn’t go to high school with me. You didn’t go to high school on the same continent as me.”

“Our high school. Fontaine High, the only high school in our jurisdiction. Fontaine Fiddlers? Ringing a bell?” Jack said. He stopped snapping finally and put a hand on his hip. “Although, the M.E.’s from your class, right? You said something after that reunion last year.”

“Wait, you’re finally making sense,” Mark said. He nodded, rubbing his chin as the memory came back. “Yeah, one of guys that hung out with the stoners mentioned he was a coroner. An FBI medical examiner. David- no, Danny!”

“You think he would help us out?” Jack asked.

“I didn’t know him that well, so I couldn’t tell you,” Mark said. He sighed and forced himself to look down at the body on the bathroom floor. George Benson had been a steady hand in the morgue for more than 40 years. Mark wouldn’t have believed the mutilated corpse was the same man.

“I’ll call County,” Jack said heavily.

“No, not yet,” Mark waved a hand until Jack lowered his phone. “Let me dig up my yearbook first.”

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dan could feel the heat from the examination lights bring up beads of sweat on his forehead. They rolled down over his furrowed brow, drawn inevitably by gravity into his eyes, making his contacts sting like a bitch.

God, how was this body not frying?

Dan adjusted his grip on his scalpel and moved to make a new incision.

“Hey, you have this guy’s file?”

The voice broke his concentration thoroughly, and Dan paused, annoyed.

“Paperwork is for the interns, Craig. Interns like you.”

Craig clapped Dan on the shoulder jovially, causing Dan to grit his teeth. “I was just wondering if you’d seen what he died from.”

“He was speared by a harpoon.”

“The idiot clocked himself with his harpoon!” Craig crowed over Dan’s answer.

The man needed to be stopped. Demanded it, even.

Dan’s eyes widened and he lowered his mask, fixing a conspiratorial smile on his face. “I think he was a runner for the Mafia, yeah? When he wouldn’t take cocaine to Cuba anymore, he had a little accident.”

Craig faltered. “Is that really what happened? The file said-“

“I wouldn’t know what happened because you won’t let me finish the damn autopsy, Craig,” Dan said. He braced himself against the edge of the table and tapped his boot against the drain in the floor, impatient. “And I don’t know what’s in the file because MEs don’t bias themselves with shit from the crime scene. Now scram, I’m trying to work.”

Craig turned sulky. “Relax, I’m already gone.”

“No, you’re not,” Dan sang as he pulled his mask back over his face, picking up his scalpel once more. “But clean up the table and instruments in Room 2 when you do leave. Also, don’t forget those insurance claims.”

The door was already swinging shut behind Craig, but Dan still counted it as a victory. He smiled behind his mask and bent over the cadaver, humming “Working Man” as he finished the Y incision.

Dan sawed open the ribcage, dissected the heart, and removed the lungs without incident. He had just lifted the stomach from the cadaver to weigh it when the door swung open again. Dan had to remind himself not to throw the stomach into the organ pan. Autopsy policy was to not destroy precious dead tissue while angry.

“Craig, you’ve got to give me space, buddy. Otherwise this relationship just will not work out.”

Craig grimaced. Some people just didn’t have the right sense of humor.

“A guy on the phone for you,” Craig grunted. He left the morgue’s ancient corded phone sitting on the autopsy table by the door. Dan barely managed to strip off a glove to catch the phone before it began to slither back through the door, dragged by its curly wire noose.

“Arin, I know we need milk, but unless you want some from the lactating corpse down the hall, you’ll have to wait until I can hit the store on my way home.” Dan shoved the phone between his ear and shoulder long enough to strip off his other glove.

“Uh, is this Dr. Daniel Avidan?”

Arin had many fine qualities, but the deep, honeyed tone of a radio show host was not one of them.

Dan paused, taking the phone carefully back in hand. The cord was stretched so tight, he could barely step away from the door. “Well, since you are not my roommate, I should inform you that medical examiners here in Quantico do not take home the by-products of cadavers, as a general rule. This is Dr. Avidan, who am I speaking with?”

“I’m Mark Fischbach, sheriff in Fontaine, North Carolina.” There was a pause, then he spoke again, almost sheepish. “We went to high school together?”

The voice connected with a face and a name.

“Fischbach. The guy that played trumpet in the band? You’re the sheriff now? Trumpet skills are more important than I thought.” Dan was surprised when a chuckle crackled over the line. His jokes usually didn’t land well with authority types.

“Listen, Sheriff, I’d love to donate to the 25-year reunion, but I’m at work right now. Can you call back another time?”

“This is actually about your work, Dr. Avidan. We’ve had a violent death here in Fontaine, and I was wondering if you would be willing to consult on it.”

Dan’s heart sank. “If you feel out of your depth, have you contacted the state police yet?”

“Well, no, I thought I would contact you first. See if you were interested.” Sheriff Fischbach was being evasive.

“Look, it’s not about interest, it’s about jurisdiction. I get that Fontaine’s not used to violence, but there’s a chain of command we follow. Has your coroner even established there is cause for investigation in this death?”

“Our coroner is the death- I mean, dead. Our coroner is the deceased.”

And so the sheriff had called the only other ME he knew, Dan supposed. “I’m sorry for your department’s loss, but in cases like this, you call the state lab, not the FBI.”

“Right, right,” Fischbach’s voice deepened further. Dan was a little impressed, but he suspected it meant Fischbach was changing tactics, not giving up. “Thanks for your advice. I’ll call State. If you don’t mind, though, I’d still like to send you the crime scene photos. Could I email them to you? I’d like a second opinion in this matter. I would pay you for your services.”

 _Well, Sheriff, you just don’t take no for an answer, do you?_ Dan knew the type. Too invested in his job, too invested in his town. The instant something went wrong, Sheriff Fischbach was the one left with his thumb stuck in the proverbial dike.

He was going to have stomach ulcers before he hit 40. He was going to put his cardiologist’s kids through college. Dan wasn’t going to be able to change that here.

“Email me the photos, but I won’t promise you anything, Sheriff. This is strictly off my professional clock, got it?” Dan had no intention of looking at the crime scene himself, but he would consider passing it on to one of his contacts. He waited until Fischbach got a pen and paper so he could pass on his email address.

“Thank you, Dr. Avidan. I look forward to hearing from you.” There was fumbling over the phone, then Fischbach’s voice came through louder, almost cheerful. “Buh bye.”

Dan heard the disconnect and looked down at the phone in his hands. While Fischbach wasn’t the first lawman to call him looking for a consultation, he was the first one to get platitudes from Dan. Most were lucky to get anything other than a gentle “Fuck off.”

“Hey, Avidan, your private minutes are up, I have to call the funeral home,” Craig banged a hand against the door until Dan looked over.

“What, this phone?” Dan pointed to the receiver in his hand, feigning confusion. He pushed the door open. “Here you go- whoops.”

Dan let the corded phone slip through his fingers. It clattered onto the tile floor and zipped around the corner, dragged back toward the base like an errant dog on a leash. Craig was forced to chase after it, cursing.

Dan smiled as he snapped on a new pair of gloves.

It was the little things.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dan finished his autopsy and supervised the six interns in what was loosely considered another autopsy. The FBI Laboratory had received the interns for the summer, so all six were new and nervous. Dan believed most of them would leave the program with some amount of skill. Even Craig, if he stopped fucking around.

One of the interns, Lindsay, kept Dan after the autopsy with a torrent of questions, but Dan bore it patiently. He’d noticed her ragged fingernails the first day, the tight cursive of her signature not long after. He didn’t need to see her transcript to know she was an A student and anxious to keep it that way.

After Lindsay’s questions finally ran out, Dan signed out of the morgue for the day and headed back to the apartment he shared with Arin. The parking garage they used was a block away from the apartment; Dan swung by the corner store to grab milk on his way in.

He found Arin already home, as always.

Arin was a writer, had been since he dropped out of high school to pursue it. His first three novels had sold well, so now he kept to whatever schedule suited him at the time, much to his editor and agent’s exasperation. Arin also wrote magazine articles when the mood struck him, usually op-ed pieces about video games.

When Dan came home, he found Arin pacing the living room floor listlessly. It was more wandering back and forth than pacing, but Arin had done it enough over the years to wear a noticeable tread in their carpet. It was a good sign; Arin paced when he was hatching a new novel.

“I got the milk,” Dan said, opening the fridge. If he didn’t announce his presence, Arin would go on pacing, oblivious.

“What? Oh, thanks. I didn’t leave the apartment today,” Arin said. His eyes roved the kitchen as if he was mentally pacing since his body had stopped.

A small delay, but Arin finally jumpstarted back to reality. His expression livened, and he looked directly at Dan. “That’s a lie, I got the mail earlier. I think I saw something for you. It’s all on the table if you want to check.”

“What’s the story about?” Dan asked. He fanned the mail out, hunting through their bills, bank statements, and junk for whatever Arin was talking about. There was a distinct possibility it was imaginary.

“I’m thinking robots and space. I played a lot of Galaga last weekend, and now all I can think about is what a Galaga novel would be like, but, you know, copyrights.” Arin made claws out of his fingers and shook them at empty air.

“Namco will definitely feel threatened.” Dan found the battered envelope with his name on it at the bottom of the mail pile. There was no return address.

He took the letter with him to the couch, and he trailed his finger over the trackpad of his laptop to wake it up as he sat down. Dan had a computer at work, but he rarely got the chance to linger in his office. Since he preferred to remain on his feet all day, Dan usually didn’t check his email until he came home.

Arin was still talking about Galaga in the background. Dan half-listened, nodding in the right places. It was a trick he’d learned conducting interviews as a profiler, but Arin didn’t really need Dan to listen right now. Arin was essentially talking his plot out with himself.

Dan set the letter aside and typed in his password, ripping the envelope open absently with his finger while his laptop booted up.

His profile opened automatically to his email, and Dan took a moment to scan the senders. He slowed when he saw a message from an unfamiliar Gmail account.

Sheriff Fischbach had been efficient. He’d sent out a short, polite email with JPEG attachments mere minutes after Dan estimated they had spoken.

Dan hadn’t intended to, but after a moment’s hesitation, he double-clicked the attachments.

He wished he hadn’t. The media manager app finished loading and a photo of the crime scene in Fontaine, forced into portrait orientation due to unskilled photography, filled his screen, floating in the black. Dan’s blood turned to ice.

The careful arrangement. The blood. The closed hand, the goddamn hand.

And the letter.

He snatched up the letter Arin had brought in with the mail. Dan’s fingers were trembling now, shaking so bad he could barely get the single sheet of printer paper out of the envelope. Grains of mica and shattered pieces of shell showered Dan’s lap when he finally ripped the letter free, but he paid them no mind. They were trappings, distractions. The message was the important part. The message shouldn’t have existed.

 

_You were wrong._

 

“Dan? What happened, is it your sister?” Arin asked. He watched anxiously as Dan slammed the paper down on the coffee table and dug his phone out of his pocket.

Dan hit send twice and pressed the phone to his ear. He noticed, as if from a distance, that his left leg was jackhammering up and down, his boot thudding against the floor as rapidly as his heart pounded in his chest.

“Dan?” Arin repeated more softly, more concerned. Dan waved him away.

“Sheriff Fischbach here.”

Dan shot to his feet, his free hand pushing his hair out of his eyes. “What was in your coroner’s hand?”

“I’m sorry?” Fischbach said.

“His left hand, the one that was in a fist. Was there something in his hand?” Dan knew he was speaking too fast, but he couldn’t stop. He needed to know now.

“Dr. Avidan? We did get his hand open, but I don’t understand-“

“What was in his hand, Sheriff?” Arin’s eyes went wide when Dan raised his voice, but Dan didn’t have time to calm down, much less soothe his roommate. Dan stalked out of the living room, waiting impatiently for Fischbach to recover enough to reply.

“There was an urchin embedded in the skin of his palm. It’s a sea creatures, just a small one,” Fischbach said finally.

Dan hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he knew for sure. He exhaled in a shuddering rush.

“If you called State, call them back and tell them not to bother, Sheriff. Your case just became federal jurisdiction. I’ll be there to see your scene in person tomorrow.”

He hung up before Fischbach could reply and hit the first speed dial in his phone. The connection barely set before a woman answered.

“Berhow. You better have a good reason for calling, Avidan.”

“We caught the wrong man,” Dan said.  “Jaws is back.”

He caught sight of Arin hovering in the doorway. Arin had recognized the name; the pallor of his face made that clear.

Dan nodded grimly. “Jaws is sending letters again. We fucked up.”


	2. Ch. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FBI medical examiner Dan has overcome drugs, a medical degree, and serial killers. Small town roots shouldn't faze him, but Fontaine's Sheriff Mark has found the key in Dan's past that drags him back. This hometown reunion has a body count.

“This is your evidence?” Berhow did not look pleased. “Please, tell me you were joking when you told Sheriff Woody to call off the state boys.”

“You can’t argue that this isn’t federal jurisdiction, Berhow. The body had an urchin in its palm. This case needs an ME who knows what to look for. This case needs our team.” Dan had printed out the crime scene photos Fischbach had emailed him. He pointed to the bloody images now, tapping his finger against his boss’s desk.

“Agent Avidan, a biased ME would ruin any case, without fail.” Berhow slid the photos away from him. She looked tired and irritable. She’d looked tired and irritable ever since she’d been promoted to Supervisory Special Agent.

“Come on, Mortemer.” Berhow looked up sharply when he used his old nickname for her, the one Dan had given her when they were partners, kicking ass together for the BAU. The set of her mouth was a warning, but Dan pressed his point anyway. “Do you really think I would ask you to reopen this investigation if I wasn’t sure this was happening again?”

Berhow’s expression softened, but not the way Dan wanted. This wasn’t agreement, this was pity, soft around the corners of her eyes and the ingratiating curve of her mouth.

“Dan, Ryan Haywood is behind bars. You and I put him there. This is a copycat case; you know that, right?”

Dan knew Haywood was behind bars. He’d called the North Branch Correctional Institution and had them check as soon as he got off the phone with Berhow.

Haywood had been the first case Dan had worked for the BAU, the first case he’d worked with Berhow as a partner. They’d found Haywood at the scene, literally red-handed.

Now Dan was beginning to think Haywood’s capture had been a little too neat, even if the guy was an unbearably creepy asshole.

“If the dead man is from a copycat, then how do you explain the letter?” Dan challenged.

“Okay, fine, the UNSUB is an obsessive copycat. What do you want from me, Avidan?”

“I want you to admit we fucked up, and I want us to fix it!”

Dan moved away from the desk because if he didn’t he was going to cheerfully strangle his boss. “The letter was signed ‘Jaws.’ We never told anyone how the unsub signed the letters, not even the local force.”

Berhow drummed her fingers on the edge of her desk planner, studying him. If this was a staring contest, Dan wasn’t going to lose. He stared back at her, hard, until his eyes began to burn.

She was still the first to look away. “The Haywood case was the basis for my career- yours too. We wouldn’t have the respect we do today if not for that case. How would it look now, if we went back and said we were wrong without offering some way to rectify the mistake?”

“This could be-“

“I think.” Berhow talked over Dan, rolling her words carefully as she spoke. “I think you have saved up enough vacation days for a month off.”

“Are you suspending me?” Dan stepped forward involuntarily. Berhow might’ve turned bureaucratic when she accepted the SSA position, but she wasn’t cold. She’d never been cruel or, well, _political_.

“I’m giving you the chance to take a vacation so you can go consult wherever you want to, you ingrate.” Berhow rolled up the crime scene printouts and swatted at Dan with them indignantly.

“Oh,” Dan caught the papers across his forearm and snatched them back on reflex. Comprehension dawned. “Ohh.”

“I’ll ask Barry to find someone to cover with your interns.” Berhow grew serious once more. “And Dan, if we fucked up before, get it right this time.”

“You got it, Mortemer.” Dan tipped the papers toward her as he left.

This felt like a victory- Berhow had definitely framed it that way, but Dan knew his situation was more difficult than it seemed. Berhow had made it clear that anything he did was not to be conducted in the name of the BAU. Dan could still worm his way into Fontaine and the case as a consulting ME, but he would have none of the BAU’s resources on his side, which was a body blow.

_Shit_ , Dan grimaced and stomped one of his feet, raising a fist against his mouth and getting some pretty weird stares, since he was in the hallway of a government building.

No BAU resources meant no government SUV rentals.

Dan was going to have to pay for his own gas.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark called off State and waited to hear from Dr. Avidan again, but his phone was silent for the rest of the night.

Rather than go crazy waiting for the phone to ring, Mark decided to make himself a grilled cheese sandwich. His golden retriever, Gracie, watched him patiently until he put one of the previous night’s pork chops into her bowl.

Mark took his grilled cheese into the living room and ate on the couch while he watched the evening news. Normally, he’d watch the local news to support his friends at the station, but he knew there would be no coverage of the upcoming Dawn Festival tonight, just fervent, almost hysterical speculation about the body found in the Fontaine Diner.

The national news, at least, covered bad things happening thousands of miles away.

When Mark could set his empty plate aside, he opened his laptop and looked up sea urchins.

Gracie had long since finished her pork chop and curled up on his lap, a puppyhood habit she’d refused to give up. Mark balanced his laptop on the arm of the couch beside him, scrolling with one hand through the search engine results.

As best as Mark could tell, the gore-covered specimen recovered from Benson’s fist was a red sea urchin, a species found in the Pacific, especially off the coast of Hawaii. They were not rare, not prized for any particular reason, but the fact that the species was from the West Coast could be significant. Mark made a mental note to have an officer check with UPS and Amazon about any local packages.

He watched the news for a while longer, not bothering to change the channel when a singing competition came on afterward. His eyes grew heavier, his fingers buried in the scruff of fur at the base of Gracie’s neck.

Mark woke up later with his lap growing cool. Gracie had given up his petting as a lost cause and left Mark alone on the couch, the room dark save for the flickering light of the TV.

Mark felt a stab of loneliness. He’d never done well in the dark, not even when he’d left adolescence and the fear of monsters behind. There was nothing like dark and silence to remind a person how empty a home was.

Mark padded to the kitchen, rubbing his neck where he’d kinked a muscle resting his head back against the couch. He left his dirty plate in the sink and moved on to his bedroom, shedding his shirt as he went.

The sheets were soft and cool against his skin, and Mark stretched out every part of himself, letting the knots in his shoulders loosen, just for a moment. Then, he dragged the spare pillow on the bed to his chest, curling up around it.

Curled up like that, there was more than enough room for someone else on the bed, but Mark didn’t think about that. If the pillow in his arms had been a person, Mark could’ve heard their heart beating languidly in their chest, but he didn’t think about that either.

Balled up near the headboard of his bed, Mark’s eyes slipped shut on all the thoughts that he wasn’t thinking, and he fell asleep once more. He didn’t sleep easily until Gracie jumped up on the bed, stretching out next to him in the early hours of the morning.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Dan managed to drag himself out of bed at eight the next morning, long before Arin would ever dream of stirring.

Dan’s room was small, his bed was cramped, and at the bedside away from the wall were stacks of medical textbooks and profiling journals. It was like waking up in a suffocating nest, but Dan rarely considered cleaning it up. If he moved his things around, he would likely be unable to find a book or article he needed. Unless he was using text, it stayed exactly where he’d laid it last.

For a moment, Dan lay spread-eagle on his back, staring up at the Rush poster plastered to his ceiling.

“Neil Peart would want me to make it through this day,” Dan said. It was something he’d repeated to himself aloud every morning since the first morning he’d woken up after he’d dropped out of college. The idea that The Professor on the Drum Kit would accept nothing less than Dan kicking ass another day was usually enough to get Dan out of bed. Usually.

Dan shuffled into the apartment’s bathroom and brushed his teeth, even perking up enough to shave properly. He eyed his hair for a moment in the mirror. It wasn’t quite long enough to be unmanageable, but the point of critical mass was fast approaching.

When he’d first joined the bureau, Dan really had tried to keep his hair regulation length, but it just grew too fast. Finally, exasperated, Dan had begged his superiors to allow him in under women’s hair regulations.

Dan pulled his hair back into a work braid, but a few stubborn curls sprang free almost immediately. A morning of riding the Interstate with his window down ahead of him, Dan feared what the future would bring, appearance-wise.

It would be better to show up disheveled than late. Dan had thrown a few of his suits and some off-duty clothes into a suitcase the night before. He grabbed it now, along with his laptop in its case, his phone, his chargers, his gun and badge, and a mostly stale bagel from the kitchen.

He didn’t want to stop for food once he was on the road.

Dan’s GPS told him it would take 4 hours to reach Fontaine, North Carolina, and he remembered the route vaguely enough to agree with that estimate. Most of the drive, after the military roads leaving Quantico, was the Interstate, which passed quickly and smoothly.

God bless North Carolina’s road tax.

Dan pulled off Fontaine’s exit just as his radio clock hit 12. The classic rock station he liked to listen to had faded to static about 50 miles ago, but he hadn’t bothered trying to find a new one, he’d just turned it off.

Fontaine hadn’t changed. Dan knew that was a cliché, but maybe it was less so since he’d last seen the town a year ago for his high school reunion.

Returning then had been surreal. The Fontaine he’d grown up in was there; the Fontaine Diner still bustled, Main Street still kept Christmas lights up all year-round, and the Fontaine Fiddlers football team still sucked. All the familiar things were buried under a new layer of progress.

Longman’s Pharmacy had once stood on the corner of Main Street and Felder. Even when Dan had been a kid, Longman’s had a working soda fountain, like straight out of 50’s diner hell. Now there was a McDonald’s.

A Radio Shack in a former law office, a new strip mall where before there had only been an empty lot teenagers used to hang out, Dan had noticed every changed detail.

This time, Dan paid less attention as he drove in, though he did note the crime scene tape fluttering loosely in the breeze around the entrance to the Fontaine Diner.

The stoplight just before the police station caught him. Dan was waiting patiently for the light to change when he realized it was Sheriff Fischbach crossing the road ahead of him.

The skinny, slightly round-faced boy with a knack for trumpet had really filled out. Mark Fischbach was fucking ripped; that fact was obvious, even through the polyester of his uniform. His hairline had not receded. It remained a shock of black, thick waves that was pushed clear of his face. Smooth, tan skin, unlined with age. The only concession Sheriff seemed to make for time was a thicker pair of glasses.

Dan tried to remember if Fischbach had been this good-looking at last year’s reunion. He really should have been paying more attention.

He realized Fischbach was heading for the Chinese buffet down the street. He was off for lunch, then. Good: Dan was starving.

Dan parked his car in one of the spaces outside of the police station and slid out hastily, locking the car over his shoulder as he half-jogged down the sidewalk.

“Hey, Sheriff!”

He was too far away; Dan watched as Fischbach opened the door to the restaurant and raised a hand in greeting to its occupants, stepping inside with a friendly smile.

Dan glanced back once to make sure he was in the lines of the parking space, then crossed the road, hurrying toward the smell of teriyaki chicken and fried rice.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Jack had already taken up residence in the back booth when Mark stepped into the Lotus Garden Buffet. He signaled to Mark by waving one arm, stuffing the end of an eggroll into his mouth with the other.

“Hear anything from that medical examiner?” Jack asked. His voice came out loud and garbled around his mouthful of food.

“No.” Mark set his wallet, his badge, and his phone down on the table.

“Shame.” Jack shrugged. “Hometown roots aren’t everything, I guess.”

Mark left Jack watching his things and made his way over to the buffet. He’d just picked up a plate, still warm from the dishwasher, when the bell over the door jangled again.

Mark glanced up out of habit and stopped.

At the reunion, the closest Mark had gotten to Dan was the span of the crowded, dim dance floor. Now, seeing him in the better light coming through the door, Mark wished he’d gotten closer.

Dan sauntered into the restaurant like he’d come for lunch every day of his life. His stride was easy, but he wasted no time.

Mrs. Xi called to him from her place behind the counter, and Dan paused, resting his hands on his hips. Mark could still see him in profile.

His suit was standard FBI issue, but it had been tailored to sit more comfortably on Dan’s extra lanky frame. His hair was just as wild as Mark remembered from high school, but it was clear Dan had at least made an effort to tame it. Most of Dan’s curls were knit into a braid that swung like a pendulum in the space between his shoulder blades.

Mark watched the line of his jaw work, fascinated, as Dan greeted Mrs. Xi.

Dan swung his head around, scanning the restaurant, and when his gaze met Mark’s, he grinned. Mark felt his face blaze in response.

Dan nodded to Mrs. Xi and came over to Mark. “I’m not too late for lunch, am I?”

He stuck out his hand and Mark tucked his plate under one arm without thinking, offering his hand in return.

“Special Agent Avidan, ME. Call me Dan; it’s nice to finally meet you properly, Sheriff.”

“Please, everyone calls me Mark.” Dan’s hand was smooth firm, fitting perfectly in Mark’s grip. Mark wished desperately that his palms had chosen some other time to sweat.

Dan didn’t seem to notice; he tilted his head to one side, studying Mark with a glitter in his eyes that Mark couldn’t read yet. “Sheriff, for now.”

When they parted, he grabbed a plate and focused on the buffet. Mark pulled the plate from under his arm as nonchalantly as possible.

“Any news since yesterday?” Dan touched his wrist to the steaming bar by mistake. He shook it off with a wince and dove back in for the pot stickers.

Mark grabbed a spring roll for himself and waited for Dan to move forward. “No, labs in this part of the state don’t have much priority, I’m afraid.”

Dan glanced at him, a smile ghosting over his lips again. “Your boys didn’t think I was going to come so soon, huh.”

Mark laughed, surprised. “Right. We haven’t even gotten the evidence off to the CSU, last I checked. Though, I bet it will be shipped out before we get back from lunch.”

“Why?” Dan hefted a mound of lo mein onto his plate. He passed the tongs to Mark.

“Small town,” Mark said. “If they didn’t know you were coming before, they know you’re here now.”

Mark finished off his plate with a corn cob on a stick. He was trying to eat better, but this seemed like dubious nutrition at best. He motioned to Dan. “Come on, you should meet Jack.”

That sudden smile again, too raw to be disingenuous; Mark’s heart dropped like he’d missed the step into the station bullpen.

“All right, Sheriff. Lead the way.”

Mark wove a path through the tables back over to the back booth. He saw that Jack had already inhaled half the food on his plate. He looked up as they approached and his eyes flickered from Mark to Dan. His eyebrows rose; Mark recognized that look. He cut Jack off quickly.

“Jack, this is Special Agent Avidan, from Quantico.”

“Just Dan,” Dan shifted his plate over to his left hand and offered his right to Jack.

Jack half-rose from his seat and shook Dan’s hand, but he winked to Mark. “Welcome back to the South, Danny boy.”

Dan slid into the booth first, giving Mark the aisle side. “Not the first time I’ve heard that joke, but the accent is an improvement. I bet chicks line up to get pulled over by you.”

Jack laughed. “I’ll have to work that angle the next time I have trouble meeting my citizen contacts.”

Mark jumped in before Jack could say something mortifying and oh-so-typical Jack. “So, was traffic bad on the way down today?”

“Nothing but clear lanes and classic rock radio, at least until the Fontaine exit.” Dan said.

Mark leaned back as Mrs. Xi passed a glass of Pepsi over to Dan.

Dan waited for Mrs. Xi to return to the front of the restaurant before speaking. “I checked crime stats for Fontaine last night. Is this your first homicide?”

“We’ve had a couple of head-on collisions in years past. Other than that, natural deaths,” Jack said.

Dan whistled. “I’d call you lucky, but your first homicide was your own coroner.”

“Hey now, we don’t talk shop at lunch. Ruins the appetite, yeah?” Jack shook his fork at Dan.

“I’m thinking there’s not much that can ruin your appetite, Jack.” Dan shot Mark a bemused look.

Mark shrugged. “Jack drags me away from work at least once every day. He insists.”

“Keeping your head in law space for too long is enough to kill anyone, even small town cops like ourselves.” Jack pushed his cleaned plate away, keeping his fork. “But I’ll clear Mark’s schedule after lunch. You’ll have time to catch up.”

Under the table, Mark stepped very firmly and deliberately on Jack’s foot. Jack smiled slyly. “Catch up on the case, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is on time! Weekly updates will continue as scheduled.


	3. Ch. 3

Prior to lunch with Mark and Jack, Dan had been unsure of how well he would get along with the local police force. With those two running the investigation, Dan wasn’t so worried.

The two welcomed him readily enough, though Jack seemed determined to tease Mark to the point of mortification. Dan knew he would have to answer tough questions about his jurisdiction in the investigation before too long, but he no longer dreaded that moment.

Dan strolled with Mark and Jack back toward the police station until they reached the corner.

He gestured toward his car. “I left something important that I should grab.”

“A Ford Fiesta?” Jack shook his head. “I took you for a man with taste.”

“No, just a man with a budget.” Dan said. He chose not to mention the hideously fuzzy purple seat covers Arin had bought for the car when Dan first got it. “I’ll catch up with you inside.”

Dan opened his back hatch. For one stuttering moment, he thought he’d already misplaced the box of files he’d borrowed from the BAU’s liaison office, but he realized his things had shifted during the drive.

The box was under a spare throw Dan kept around and one of his suits in its travel wrap. The cardboard may have been a little more beat up than before, but it was fine.

Dan lugged the box into the police station, shoving it haphazardly onto the counter of the front desk. He peered around its edges and found that Pearl Reed was still the local dispatcher.

Pearl was old enough to be God’s own dispatcher. She was definitely old enough to remember some of the trips Dan had made to the station in high school.

After staring at each other for a moment, Pearl took her sweet time pulling the headset from her ears.

“I remember you,” Pearl said. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Daniel Avidan. You set the football field on fire once.”

“It’s Special Agent Avidan now, actually. I’m here to see Sheriff Fischbach?” Dan tapped his box pointedly. “It’s about-“

“I know what it’s about,” Pearl began the slow process of putting her headset back on. “He’s in Conference Room 1. Down the hall.”

“The station has conference rooms now? How many?” Dan craned his neck, trying to see down the hallway.

Pearl remained unimpressed. “One.”

“Right, I will just see myself in. Good talk.” Dan gathered the box of files back into his arms and staggered down the hall as fast as he could. Cranky dispatchers’ memories were too long, by far.

When Dan shouldered open the door to the conference room, he saw that Mark and Jack were already inside. They stood near the far wall, deep in conversation.

It was an argument about something, Dan surmised. Mark’s shoulders were coiled like springs, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Jack appeared to be on the defensive, an incredulous smile on his face.

Dan wondered if perhaps he should wait in the hall for a few minutes to let them work it out, but before he could budge, the tension broke between them. Jack pulled Mark’s arms out of his tight posture and clapped a hand against his chest until Mark chuckled, brushing him away.

An intimate gesture and a habit, Dan noted. He cleared his throat loud enough to be heard. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not to worry, I was on my way to the bullpen,” Jack said. “Thatcher wants help with festival detail. I’ll catch you later.”

Dan set the box of files down on the conference room table with a groan. He was definitely going to feel the strain on his lower back tomorrow morning. He saw that Mark had brought in his own file, even though it could only have started the night before. It looked woefully thin lying out on the table.

“How much time do we have to meet?” Dan asked as the door shut behind Jack.

Mark approached the table, glancing at Dan’s box curiously. “As much as we need. Jack really did clear my entire afternoon.”

“He can do that?”

There was a touch of exasperation in Mark’s smile. “He can be very strong-willed.”

“Then we should take advantage of this.” Dan faced Mark and leaned back against the table, crossing his legs. “So, what do you know so far about your homicide?”

“Trace got sent to the lab while we were at lunch, like I suspected,” Mark said. He opened the flimsy file in his hands. “George… the body is being kept on ice at the Heston funeral home until a proper autopsy can be performed.”

Dan nodded. “I’ll go there tonight. The body shouldn’t be left cooling too long.”

“Well, aside from that, we haven’t found much other information. I had two uniforms take statements and follow-up information at the scene. There were only two customers in the diner, but we interviewed the cooks and the owner as well. So far, I haven’t been able to find any useful leads in their statements.”

“So what leads are your force following right now?” Dan asked.

“Someone should be checking for the possibility of security cameras being used by other businesses on Main Street, but I’m not hopeful. Most businesses set up fake cams, at best. I’m also looking into the timeline. Heston says she saw George leave the funeral home late Tuesday night. That leaves 15 hours unaccounted for. I’d like to speak to George’s wife, see if she could fill in some of that blank,” Mark said.

He closed his file and let it slap down on the conference table. When Mark looked up again, Dan felt as though he’d been read from beginning to end.

“So, tell me why the FBI already has a box full of evidence on the death of my coroner,” Mark said.

The cut of his eyes, the tilt of his head- suddenly, Dan could see why Mark had already been promoted to Sheriff. He wasn’t the biggest fish in the small pond, but he was the cleverest.

Dan rested a hand on the lid of his box. “Listen, Sheriff, it sounds like you already suspect what I’m about to tell you.”

“You’re a medical examiner, but you work for the BAU,” Mark said. “You specialize with serial offenders. You knew to ask about the urchin. It’s a signature, isn’t it?”

Dan stared at Mark in amazement until Mark ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “The state offered a basic profiling course, and I took it.”

“Then you just saved us a lot of time.” Dan shook off his surprise. “I’ll fill you in.

“The first case I picked up when I came to the BAU was in Georgia. The media called the unsub the Sea Glass Butcher.” Dan saw Mark straighten at the name.

“We profiled a white sexual sadist in his mid-to-late 20s. He was attacking young, brunette men on track to prominent careers. Our theory at the time was that the victims represented an object of obsession for the unsub.

“The unsub must have stalked these men for weeks before he took them. All of the victims had strict schedules they adhered to, but that made it easy for the unsub to take them. The average time frame between the time victims were taken and their time of death was three days.”

Dan inched a file out of the box at random and rifled through until he found the autopsy photos. He laid the pages out carefully for Mark to look at, choosing to ignore the way Mark’s hands slipped away from the table and the photos.

“Victims showed no defensive wounds, but there was an identical electrical burn on the nape of each neck from a taser, and limbs showed ligature bruising and trace duct tape adhesive. Layers of wounds in varying states of congelation indicated extensive knifeplay torture, but there was no sign of sexual assault on any of the four bodies or dump sites.

“Nothing about the way he killed was nearly as telling as his signatures.”

Mark’s eyebrows rose, “Multiple signatures? That’s pretty rare.”

“There were three signatures that we determined.” Dan ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke.

“First, all the wounds on the victims showed trace amounts of powdered black glass. Analysis of the particles and a few, rare shards showed that the blade was either made or coated with genuine black sea glass, the rarest sea glass there is.

“Second, a letter was delivered anonymously to the police after each victim was discovered. Letters contained taunts directed at investigators and intimate knowledge of the murders. They were always signed ‘Jaws.’

“And third, each victim was discovered with a red sea urchin embedded in the palm of the left hand.

Dan could still remember giving most of this talk to the police in Georgia so clearly he felt like his words had an echo as they rolled off his tongue.

“We concluded the unsub was impotent and possibly acting out rage fantasies toward a young man in his life he perceived as stealing all of his power.” Dan leaned back against the table, scanning the glossy images he’d spread out. “Reasonably, we can’t say for sure why an unsub does anything, but teams from the BAU operate under a shitload of theories to make our profiles quickly enough to be useful to investigators.

“We caught the unsub. Ryan Haywood was hunted down after a witness saw him tase a man and drag him into a blue van. When Haywood was apprehended and searched, police found a rigged VIPERTEK VTS-989 taser, a half-used roll of duct tape, residue from powdered black glass on his jacket, and an unconscious man restrained in the back of Haywood’s blue van. We were never able to find the murder weapon, but we didn’t need to.”

Dan suppressed a shudder. He had been with the team that brought in Haywood. The creepy fucker hadn’t said a word during the entire process. He didn’t speak during his interrogation, he didn’t speak with his lawyer, he didn’t speak during the trial, and, as far as Dan knew, he had remained mute in prison.

“We caught him, but it wasn’t because of our profile. Profiling is usually accurate, far more accurate than most people who call it guesswork would believe. That first case, though, we were wrong. We profiled a white, impotent sexual sadist in his 20s with thinly veiled rage issues focused on a younger male in his life. Haywood was a white man in his late 30s, a husband with two young children, and he was calm to the point of catatonia. He’s a sociopath. We were fortunate to have caught him.”

“So the BAU thinks my coroner is the first kill for a copycat?” Mark asked. During Dan’s spiel, he’d leaned against the wall of the conference room by the door, his frown deepening the longer Dan spoke.

“The BAU does think this is a copycat,” Dan said honestly. He pulled the latest note from the inside pocket of his suit and set it down over the autopsy photos. “But I’m not so sure. We’re receiving the letters again. They’re still signed ‘Jaws,’ a detail we never gave the press. This feels genuine to me.”

Mark nodded, his eyes on the letter. Dan couldn’t read his expression, but that didn’t make him nervous. A person was the most difficult to read while considering a big decision. Dan had laid his case out honestly and openly. An officer like Mark would value that.

“So, what leads will you be pursuing?” Mark spoke finally. He might not believe as Dan did, but he had accepted Dan’s theory as possible; it was a good first step, an important one.

“The autopsy is most pressing. I need to see if the MO and signatures are consistent. Any changes could show evolution over time.” Dan said.

“You can leave your files in this conference room, if you like. I gave Pearl notice that we were converting it into an HQ of sorts. It’ll stay locked, and I’ll only authorize you and me for entry.” Mark paused, considering. “And Jack.”

“It’s a start,” Dan started shuffling the evidence he’d pulled out back together. He smiled gratefully when Mark came over to help. Mark reddened noticeably.

“Hey, where are you staying while you’re in town? Your family moved away years ago,” Mark said, his words tumbling over each other in his haste.

Dan straightened the photos Mark passed him against the table and put them back in their file. “I’m staying at the Birch Tree, it’s closer to the Heston funeral home than Fontaine Inn is.”

“Oh, tell Ellie I sent you. She’ll give you a discount.”

“Right, thanks.” Dan adjusted the lid until it fit back on the box and dusted off his hands. “You’re sure this evidence will be safe in here?”

“I’ll finish organizing and setting up some boards for display later,” Mark said. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets as he scanned the room.

“Working with bodies… you don’t feel bad for them? When I saw George in the diner bathroom yesterday, I felt like I’d been sucker punched.”

Dan knew all about that. If he didn’t feel sick anymore looking at the twisted bodies he worked with, he would retire the same day, but his work was important. At the end of an autopsy, he had answers that could give families closure, and he repaired bodies until loved ones could tell the dead goodbye to their face.

He shrugged, heading for the conference room door. “I just roll with the punches.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

Dan offered to let Mark stand in on the autopsy, but Mark politely declined. If he never had to see George laid out lifeless and cold again, it would be too soon. Mark said goodbye to Dan there in the conference room and stayed behind to set up the center of the investigation.

When Dan had called back asking about the urchin in George’s hand, Mark began to suspect the FBI had some idea of what had happened, but he hadn’t expected the box of files Dan had hauled into the station.

There were four cases, not including George. Four men in Georgia had been found bloody and broken, their lives as shattered as their bodies. Mark gave each case its own easel. He made sure Darren Wyatt, John Coombs, Jason Greenburg, and Henry Diaz each had a professional shot on their boards, a sense of self amid the carnage of their corpses and crime scene photos.

Mark gave the intended fifth victim, Thomas Finch, a section on the wall of the conference room as well. He had survived, but Mark doubted that gave Finch much sleep at night.

“Oi, that’s enough to give a man nightmares.” Jack grimaced at the photos Mark was pinning up. He peeked at the files still stacked in the box on the table.

“I knew this was a mess, Sheriff, but I thought the special agent was here to help us clean it, not pile on the shit.”

“He went to do the autopsy. That’s help enough,” Mark said.

Jack was rifling through the papers left askew on the table. “The Sea Glass Butcher, eh?”

“Agent Avidan thinks the cases are connected-” Mark stopped when Jack held up his hand.

“I don’t know Avidan, but I trust your instincts, Mark,” Jack said softly. He dropped the papers back on the table, squaring his shoulders. “So, what should I tell the boys to do while Avidan slices and dices?”

It was just inappropriately upbeat enough to be exactly something Jack would say. Mark loved him for that.

“Night rounds patrol with backup now. Be alert for break-ins or people we don’t know walking the streets after dark. If something else happens, we’ll announce a curfew, but I think that’s a step ahead of where we are now. And tell Pearl to call up Rhett and Link; I’d like a copy of their employee roster.”

“You got it,” Jack said cheerily. He pulled open the door, leaning against it in a way he surely thought was casual. “Hey, you’re gonna ask him out, right?”

“No! In case you forgot, he’s here to solve a murder. We’re working a homicide investigation, Jack.” Mark felt his face heat up, but only because he had considered it. It had been a long time since someone interesting had come to town, but if he let Jack know that, Jack would never let it go. Jack and his _matchmaking_.

“It could be a work date. I saw you looking at his-”

“Great big box of murder files, sitting right in front of me. Night patrols to be announced. Ringing a bell?”

“I’m leaving, I just think you should bring him a coffee sometime. He was checking you out too, you know.”

“Jack!”

“Night patrols, right, right. I’m on it, Sheriff.”


	4. Ch. 4

Dan lingered in the basement of the funeral home for most of the afternoon. It was the longest autopsy he’d conducted in years; at the academy, Dan had knocked his average time down to around two hours. He took so long partly because he wanted to be careful and objective with this body, but also because Dan found himself hopelessly hindered by the worst morgue he’d ever encountered.

Going into the funeral home, Dan had been braced for a setup less ideal than the academy, but that was with any fieldwork. Even with his lowered expectations, Dan was disappointed this time.

The morgue had two cold storage drawers. Only one was occupied, which was probably fortunate because Dan noticed that George Benson had no form of identification on his body. When Dan asked the funeral home assistant about ID tags, all he got was a blank look in response.

The morgue consisted altogether of a single room, cold storage, a workbench, a steel table, a desk cluttered with papers and a television set from the 80s, and a mini fridge with a piece of printer paper taped to it that said “TRACE.”

All the autopsy tools were shoved inside the workbench drawers; Dan spent thirty minutes rooting around for them alone. Once he finally got the autopsy going, Dan realized that the “TRACE” mini fridge was broken. Desperate, he decided to store evidence in the spare cold storage drawer, only to find Benson had already had that idea, but for last week’s lunch.

Dan escaped the messy, cold basement of the funeral home four hours later. His back and shoulders ached from stooping over the body, his fingers cramped from using and cleaning tools he hadn’t touched since he moved to the academy, and his eyes hurt from the morgue’s spot lamps. It wasn’t for nothing, however. Dan had pulled a fair amount of trace to set aside, and his examination of the body revealed promising parallels to his previous case. Well, the evidence was promising for Dan’s theory. It would be shitty news for Mark.

The Birch Tree Inn had changed since Dan’s childhood, but only so much as it had fallen apart. The white paint that had once been so bright it seemed to glow in the night from the backseat of his parents’ car was now gray and peeled in places. It was especially bad at the corners, where chunks of the building’s crumbling brick were visible. The entire east wing appeared to have sunken a foot into the earth as the foundation gave way.

The lobby, however, was well-kept and clean. The lamplight was much easier and more welcoming to Dan’s tired eyes than fluorescent banks would have been. An alcove to the right sheltered a set of tables, their matching chairs leaned on their tops for the night. An ancient microwave buzzed against the far wall, and a varnished plank of wood hung over the entrance, the words “Breakfast Nook” burned into its surface in an elaborate font.

A teen was running the front desk, and her nametag introduced her as Brianne. She looked up from the lobby’s TV when Dan approached. She was probably still a high school student; the white outlines of braces still marked her teeth when she smiled.

“I made a reservation under Avidan.” Dan shifted his overnight bag higher on his shoulder with a wince, pulling his identification from inside his suit.

“FBI?” Brianne sounded impressed and suspicious.

“Yes. Oh, the sheriff said to tell Ellie that he sent me?” Dan put his badge away.

“That’s my mom.” Brianne relaxed. “Sorry if I sounded off or something. We had a bunch of trouble with identity theft last year.”

Dan noted the security monitor behind the counter. That was probably what happened to any renovation budget the inn had.

“Better safe than sorry.” Dan would have apologized to Brianne if it meant he got his room key faster. He passed her his credit card.

“Mom put you up in 107. Continental breakfast opens at six, but I prefer the Hardee’s up the road. Call the front desk if you need anything, okay?” Brianne returned Dan’s card to him along with his key- an actual key- smiling brightly. “And enjoy your stay at the Birch Tree.”

Dan shuffled down the west hall until he reached his door and figured out the lock. He was relieved to see the room décor matched the lobby’s upkeep more than the exterior. His room was quite comfortable. The window only looked out on the parking lot, but the bed was soft and made with cotton sheets, not scratchy ones, and everything was clean. The bathroom even had extra towels. There was a painting of violets hanging over the bed, but it wouldn’t truly be a hotel room without a chintzy, generic piece of art.

Dan let his bag fall into the armchair, steadying the lamp he nearly overturned, and then flopped face-first onto the bed. He relaxed all his muscles at once and groaned with relief. He groaned again when his phone rang.

“Mortemer, I thought I was on vacation,” Dan said. He stifled a yawn.

“Officially, yes.”

“And unofficially?”

“How did the autopsy go?” Berhow ignored his sarcasm.

Dan sat up reluctantly. “This case looks more solid by the second.”

“Solidly a copycat, I hope.”

“The BAU can’t sit on this, Suze. This is Jaws. I have more than enough proof. What’s it going to take to get the Bureau to send more help, another body?”

The silence from the other end was so staticky, Dan began to think he’d lost the call. Then, Berhow sighed. “Dan, I know what you’re seeing in the field, trust me, but the board deals in statistics and probability. I already tried to bring this to them once. You know the rules-“

“Holy fuck.” Dan stood up, suddenly wide awake and unable to stand still. “You’ve got to be shitting me. They actually want to wait until there’s another body?”

“Two or more bodies, a unique signature, and local invitation or federal jurisdiction,” Berhow reminded him.

“We’ve got five bodies! We’ve got signature out of our asses, and the board wants to sit on this? Fontaine has practically begged for us to come down!”

“The board just doesn’t see it that way. You still haven’t proven this isn’t a copycat, Dan. You have one body, and the local sheriff called you specifically as an expert. It’s not my decision now that we’ve involved the board. I really am sorry.” Berhow spoke softly, the edge of guilt in her voice unmistakable.

Dan stopped pacing and rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window. “I know, I know, Suze. I just imagine the look on Mark’s face if I tell him another one of his people has to die for the FBI to be interested, and I-”

“First-name basis,” Berhow noted. “Are you fraternizing with local law enforcement again, Agent Avidan?”

There was precedent, Dan would have to admit. When he worked in the field before, a trail of suspiciously positive reviews came back to Quantico. Police officers were not too subtle in their affections, Dan had learned.

He didn’t think it applied this time. Something about Mark was too heady; Dan looked at him and danger signs went off in his head. The man’s voice alone had the potential to do things Dan would enjoy far too much.

“This is my childhood home, Suze. I don’t want to watch it become a killing ground, is all,” Dan said finally.

“Then we have work to do. Get some rest and report back when you’ve got the board by the balls.” Berhow hung up. She never did have the patience for goodbyes.

Dan wanted nothing more than to follow her orders, but the phone call had woken him up too much to go directly to sleep.

Instead, Dan set about organizing his personal base of operations, a place for him to think away from the strategy boards and high tensions of the police station. He closed the room’s curtains so passersby wouldn’t be privy, then spread out his personal files, the evidence important enough that he’d made copies to keep with him. Dan taped the autopsy reports to the wall over the hotel desk. On the desk itself, Dan left his laptop, fluttering with sticky notes about recent cases, and his journal, a beat-up navy blue book so worn that its pages were wavy with ink. He shoved his files folder into the desk’s lowest drawer and, out of habit, used a binder clip to jam the drawer along the bottom. Anyone but him who tried to open the drawer wouldn’t be able to see the binder clip without pressing their face to the floor; they would assume the drawer was broken and empty.

Satisfied, Dan took the Ziploc bag with his toiletries into the bathroom and let his nightly routine take over. He freed his hair, brushed his teeth, and stripped down to his undershirt and a pair of boxers.

Returning from the bathroom, Dan fully intended to check his email for the night and sleep. He wandered around the room briefly, checking the AC unit, then sat down to his laptop and lost track of time.

His emails were easily dealt with. Afterward, he pored over the old autopsy reports, refreshing himself on the finer details. He started a new section in his journal for the Benson case, scribbling down his initial thoughts. Several times, he debated about turning in, but each time he thought again of how he would break it to Mark that the FBI was ignoring evidence right under its nose.

He fell asleep at the hotel desk, his cheek smearing ink from the last lines he’d managed.

 

The opening bass from Forty-Six and Two woke Dan the next morning. He sat up and straight into spinal hell as his body took vengeance for the worst sleeping position Dan believed he’d ever been locked in.

Dan knocked over the chair in his haste, dive-bombing the bed and fumbling for his cell. He caught a glimpse of the time illuminated on the screen before he answered: 5:45 am. God help him.

“Avidan,” Dan croaked.

“Oh, did I wake you?” Mark’s voice was so _alert_. Dan had to pull the cell a few inches away from his ear. It was like “Reveille” in a person.

Mark continued, unaware. “I was on my way in to the station, and I thought I’d call to see if you wanted a ride. Carpooling saves the environment and all that.”

“A ride.” Dan’s mind just refused to connect the words to any concept of reality.

“Yeah, if you like. We could even stop somewhere for coffee- that is, if you like?” Mark trailed into uncertainty and Dan’s brain finally jumped into gear.

“Sure! Yes, a ride would be great. Although, I think they have coffee here at the Birch Tree, if you wanted to save the environment and your money.”

Mark laughed with an edge of relief, to Dan’s confusion. “God, Ellie and Brianne are great, but trust me, you don’t want Ellie’s coffee. We’ll drive by some place on our way. How long do you need?”

“15 minutes,” Dan yawned, rubbing the side of his face. He winced at the itch of his stubble. “Make that 20.”

 

Mark was already waiting in the parking lot when Dan came out of the hotel. His police cruiser was one of the newer ones, a Charger, but the city council had done away with most of the red and blue that signified police officer; the station insignia was done in green on white. It looked like a mall security, save for the turret lights.

“Hop in,” Mark said cheerily when Dan came up the sidewalk.

The cruiser was roomier than Dan’s Fiesta, but the seats were shoved way forward. He assumed Jack usually rode shotgun. Both he and Mark were shorter men with shorter legs.

Dan surreptitiously rocked the seat back a few notches and settled in, clipping his seatbelt. Mark had already circled the Birch Tree’s parking lot. He put on his turn signal at the exit and paused long enough to pass Dan a warm Styrofoam cup.

“Sorry, I grabbed you a coffee on the way.” Mark apologized. “We really should get down to the station. I didn’t know how much cream or sugar you take, so just take what you need from the glovebox.”

Dan opened it and almost spilled the coffee when he needed both hands to catch a cascade of sugar packets. “Yes, this seems about right for me. It’s a ten-packet kind of morning.”

The transceiver on Mark’s shoulder spit out a burst of static as they pulled up to a stoplight, and Mark lifted a hand to turn it down quickly. He sat naturally behind the wheel, Dan noted. In profile, his cheekbones drew Dan’s eye.

“Did you inhale yours?” Dan asked, ripping his eyes away and opening three sugars at once. He had a lot of practice.

“What? Oh, no, I don’t really drink coffee that much. You just sounded like you needed caffeine this morning when I called.” Mark cast a quick smile in Dan’s direction as he pulled up to a stoplight.

“Thanks. I was up later than I expected making notes on this case.” Dan dumped a second set of sugar packets into his coffee. He looked around for a stirrer, but made do with swirling the sugar in, one hand clamped down on the lid.

“Did the autopsy turn up anything?” Mark jumped on the subject eagerly. Dan supposed he’d been waiting for news.

“Nothing I didn’t have from the other cases.” It was Dan’s turn to apologize. “Listen, Sheriff, I got a call from Quantico last night.”

“They’re not interested.” Mark nodded. He glanced over and caught Dan’s surprise. “Quantico called me, too.”

“I haven’t been able to find anything that would change minds yet,” Dan said. “But I will. That’s why I’m here.”

“On your own dime,” Mark said mildly. “What are you doing back in Fontaine if the FBI didn’t send you, burning vacation days?”

“Something like that.” Dan swallowed his first taste of coffee quickly. The caffeine hit his system, and his pulse picked up. “Don’t worry about me, I haven’t done anything that would ruin a case for you. I’m here to help, bottom line.”

Mark pulled into a spot along Main Street, putting the cruiser in park. He was debating something internally; Dan could see the conflict on his face.

“You’re here to help because you might have screwed up the first time? Because if you’re only here trying to prove something-”

“No, I’m here to help because you asked,” Dan said slowly.

Mark’s eyes flickered wider and his hand moved quickly to the back of his neck. “Okay. Just as long as we’re on the same page.”

Dan bit back a grin as he watched Mark’s face flame. “Oh, I think we’re on the same page. We’re on the same team, at least.”

His teasing stopped when Mark’s transceiver beeped, signaling a transmission for his code. Flustered, it took a moment for Mark to unclip his handheld to respond.

“Fontaine, this is Fontaine One coming back, where’s the call?”

“Fontaine One, we’ve got a 10-63. Investigate a possible body on high school campus.”

All the blood drained from Mark’s face, but Dan didn’t blame him; he personally felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

A possible body near the high school. The day was looking grim.

“Fontaine One, copy?”

“I copy, I’m here, Pearl.” Mark responded with one hand, his transceiver shoved between his jaw and his shoulder as he used his free hand to turn the car on and shift into reverse.

“10-17, ETA is five minutes. Stand by.”

“Back up?” The transceiver crackled.

Mark locked eyes with Dan, and Dan shivered at the intensity, but Mark’s mind was miles away, already at the scene.

“Negative, we are an Adam-unit. Stand by for report, over.”

Dan had time to grip the handle over his door, then Mark stepped on the gas pedal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note! All the codes used by the Fontaine Police Department are based on actual codes used by North Carolina police. Police codes are a fairly localized terminology, so I kept it as accurate as I could for a fictionalized town.


	5. Ch. 5

Mark saw Dan clinging to the safety handle for dear life, but that didn’t stop him from jumping the curb in front of the high school and parking on the sidewalk. He could see the source for the reports from road; a figure crumpled to the side of the school’s front stairwell, horribly motionless. It was wearing jeans and a red jacket, but it was impossible to make out anything more at this angle and distance.

Mark ripped the keys from the ignition and bolted from the car before Dan even got his seatbelt off.

“Sheriff, maintain the scene!” Dan yelled, his voice strangled as he tried to escape the cruiser.

Mark paid no heed. He sprinted across the front lawn, nearly slipping in the wet grass. When he reached the body, he fell to his knees, ignoring the bite of concrete through his slacks, and he rolled it over until he could see the face.

A wave of alcohol and old-vomit smell washed over Mark, and he heard the clink of glass hitting pavement, accompanied by a groan, low, but very much alive.

The “body” was actually a teenage boy, his acne-covered face screwed tight with what had to be an awful hangover. He was Anita Gedding’s kid, Trevor. Mark made it a rule to know local teens, and Trevor was typically a good kid.

At the moment, he was in big trouble. Mark wasn’t sure who would pass out first, Trevor or him.

“Sheriff Fischbach?” Trevor said tremulously. Mark was just quick enough to move his hand before Trevor leaned over and dry-heaved.

There was a soft sound of disgust from behind him; Dan had finally caught up.

Before Trevor looked up, Mark motioned for Dan to stay quiet.

“Rough night?” Mark helped Trevor to his feet. He made sure his face and his voice stayed neutral. That was key.

“Sheriff? Sheriff, I can explain,” Trevor wobbled on his feet. Mark kept a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“In the car, Geddings. Your mother’s probably worried sick.”

“Are you gonna tell her?”

Mark wrinkled his nose at the smell of alcohol wafting off the boy. “I don’t think I’ll have to, son.”

He gave Trevor a nudge, and Trevor began a tentative shuffle toward Mark’s cruiser. Mark pulled Dan out of earshot. “Hey, do me a favor?”

“There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s going to puke on your seats, and there’s really nothing I can do to stop him,” Dan said. Mark couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.

“No, I just need you to stay quiet while we ride. No matter what Trevor says, don’t respond, okay?” Mark kept his voice low.

Dan arched an eyebrow, but nodded.

They caught up with Trevor as he was fumbling with the handle of the cruiser passenger door.

“Whoa, no, you’re in the back. I’ve got the FBI riding with me today.”

“The FBI?” The break of panic in the poor kid’s voice almost made Mark give it away- almost. He remained stoic while he held open the back door for Trevor’s struggle to get in.

While he switched on the ignition, Mark glanced surreptitiously at Dan. He’d busied himself with the files he brought from the hotel. Dan slipped his braid over his shoulder with exaggerated care as Mark watched.

Mark adjusted his rearview mirror so he could see the road and Trevor, then reversed off the sidewalk.

“Can’t you tell my mom to go easy on me, Sheriff?” Trevor pleaded. He was leaned forward, his fingers pushed through and clinging to the steel mesh of the cage.

Mark said nothing.

“I never do stuff like this, I swear! Man, I’d never even had a drink before- well…. But I’ve never gotten _that_ drunk before. It was stupid. I was just stupid.”

Anita Geddings lived over on Cedar Circle, Mark knew. He’d gotten a few domestic calls in the neighborhood, and Anita was always on the porch when he walked by. No matter what time of night, she always politely asked him what she could do to help.

“It was Brianne, all right? I heard she was gonna break up with me for Aaron, so my buddy Jason took me to a party and we drank. I think Jason made it home when Nadia kicked us out, but I wanted to walk. But it was a stupid decision! I know that, Sheriff Fischbach, sir. It was just a mistake.” Trevor had babbled on to this point, but now the cruiser was turning onto his street. He was on the verge of tears.

Mark parked the cruiser three houses down from Anita’s and left the car running as he got out to open Trevor’s door.

Trevor came out of the cruiser wide-eyed and shaky. “Sheriff?”

“Your mother doesn’t need to get up until you go to school, right?” Trevor nodded. Mark jerked his head toward Trevor’s house. “It’s just past six. Go inside quietly, take a really long shower, and brush your teeth. If you’re lucky, she’ll thank you for waking up early today.”

“Thank you so much, Sheriff, I owe you big time for this.” Trevor looked like he was going to cry in earnest.

You could have been dead, Mark thought grimly. He could have given Trevor’s mother some much worse news today than underage drinking.

“Oh, and Geddings.”

“Sir?”

“Just talk to Brianne, for God’s sake. Don’t listen to rumors.” Mark shook his head.

Trevor smiled sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”

Mark got back into the cruiser and watched Trevor slip into his house. He felt the car shaking; Dan was red with suppressed laughter.

He lost control when Mark looked at him, laughing so hard Mark could see tears build in his eyes.

“He- he kept calling you _sir_.” Dan choked out. His laughter trailed off into quieter giggles. “Oh my god, it was like listening to Bambi.”

His laughter was contagious; Mark grinned reluctantly. “The silent trick works better with teens than lectures do, especially hungover teens. Trevor’s an honors student, and his mother really is something fierce. I don’t think we’ll get calls about him anymore.”

“I hope not, or you’ll be an Olympic-class sprinter. You can really leg it, Sheriff.”

And then they were both snickering in the cruiser, Mark with his head bowed against the steering wheel, and Dan with his head thrown back, shoulders shaking.

Mark’s transceiver crackled again. “Fontaine One, this is Fontaine Two. Do you copy?”

“Copy, Jack. The 10-63 was a false alarm, over.” Mark smiled at Dan from behind the handheld.

His smile faded when Jack’s voice came through the static, audibly strained. “Then you should get your ass over to my location, Avidan too. I’ve cordoned off the location, but I need assistance. I think I found our crime scene.”

“Location?” Mark asked, numb.

“226 Crestwood Avenue.”

“10-17. ETA is eight minutes.” Mark left his transceiver in his lap. He circled back through Cedar and pulled up to the highway.

He jumped slightly when Dan’s hand gripped his forearm. Dan looked uneasy, almost incredulous. “Did Jack say the address was 226 Crestwood Avenue?”

“Yeah, it’s an empty house, thank God. It’s over near the old pizza arcade-”

“I know where it is, Sheriff.” Dan withdrew his hand, straightening the files in his lap meticulously. “I lived there.”

 

They arrived on-scene in time to see Jack finish putting up the scene tape. He was arguing with Mrs. Bennett, a well-known gossip. Mark could see that Jack was being carefully polite, but his control was slipping. Mark stepped in before Jack could say something snappy. Dan ducked under the tape, his expression serious. Jack spoke to him in a low, urgent voice.

“Ma’am, is there a problem?”

“Yes, I was out for my morning walk, and I saw Deputy McLoughlin putting up his police tape in our neighborhood. I asked him why, but he is refusing to comment, and that is a violation of the Freedom of Information Act, Sheriff. I believe he should be formally reprimanded.” Mrs. Bennett emphasized her opinion with a sniff.

“Now, we’ve had this discussion before. FOIA does not extend to open police investigations.”

“But what am I supposed to say at the next Neighborhood Watch meeting?” Mrs. Bennett protested, wringing her hands.

Mark escorted her gently up the sidewalk, nudging her away from the tape. “Those pecan squares you made for the last department potluck were delicious. Make those, and Miss Ard and Mrs. Dahlia will forget all about an empty house down the street.”

“But-“

“You have a good day, Mrs. Bennett,” Mark said firmly. He shooed her away as politely as he could, then jogged back to the tape. He ducked under, coming up beside Jack and Dan.

Dan was staring up at the house, his expression unreadable.

The Avidans had moved not long after Dan graduated high school, Mark remembered. Another family must’ve never moved in, because the house had fallen into disrepair. The screened-in porch sagged against the side of the house, its mesh in tatters.

The entire house was a uniform gray, its siding covered in grit that desperately needed a power wash.

Shingles were missing from the roof, and the gutters were bowed under the weight of the leaves and acorns that had collected in them unchecked. Several of the windows on the upper story had been broken during a recent winter storm; the splintery end of a tree branch was still visible thrust through one of the panes. The door was knocked inward, a gaping hole along the house’s front.

“Did we knock in the door?” Mark asked Jack.

“No, that’s what caught my eye. Been on this patrol route for two years, and this is the first time that door’s been open. I went up the steps and called out a few times, but nobody answered so I risked a look around. You should too, Sheriff.”

Jack led the way up the steps, stopping Mark and Dan at the door. “Watch your feet. It’s slick.”

Dan tried the light switch automatically, but the house stayed dark. Jack passed flashlights to him and to Mark. “Hasn’t had electric in years, my friend.”

“Go figure,” Dan muttered. He looked at Mark. “If this is the scene, we’ll need spotlights for the crime scene photos.”

Mark switched on his flashlight, the beam reflecting off the hardwood floors. He inhaled sharply. “I don’t think that’s a hypothetical anymore.”

Dan hit his flashlight against the palm of his hand until it flickered on. He shined it around the room in a quick scan.

“Shit.” The word lingered over Dan’s lips in a hiss.

The room, which might’ve once been a living room, was nothing more than a bloodbath now. The hardwood floors, dark from age and damage, were slick from congealing blood kept wet by the room’s moisture. A smudged outline could be made out in the center of the room where the blood had been smeared away in an amorphous mess.

Blood also dripped from the arterial spray on the walls, streaks of dark red that made uniform waves where the faded wallpaper had rippled with damp and mold.

“It gets worse,” Jack said. He motioned toward an open door with the beam from his own flashlight, and Mark and Dan picked their way gingerly across the room.

It was the kitchen. The linoleum was as puckered and ruined as the wallpaper. The refrigerator and the oven had been ripped out when the previous owners moved, but the counter still crowded the far corner of the room, and a warped table was pushed against the nearest wall.

Drying blood was splashed all over the floor in the kitchen as well, wide swathes of it, like strokes from the paintbrush of Jackson Pollock gone mad.

A single chair accompanied the table, a figure slumped in it, the head thrown back. The beam from Mark’s flashlight caught a pair of scuffed boots, the body’s boots. The body’s legs were knocked askew under the table.

“I saw the shape in the dark and radioed you in,” Jack said hoarsely. “I didn’t- I couldn’t shine my light on it. Jesus, Mark. Why is this happening in Fontaine?”

Mark said nothing. Dan raised his flashlight until it illuminated the corpse.

Decomposition had already set in, but the man’s features were still visible through the decay. He was- had been- a young man, no older than 30. His features were handsome, even in death. Thick, brown hair was matted back from his face with dried blood, and more gore was crusted along his full lips like obscene lipstick.

He was topless, his torso littered with familiar and deliberate wounds. Chilling, loving attention had been paid to the man’s collarbones, his shoulders, cuts so deep Mark could see bone.

Mark finally looked the corpse full in the face, and he felt bile rise in his throat. He noticed distantly that Jack made a retching sound and left the room. Dan stood frozen, his left arm raised to shine his flashlight on the corpse’s grotesque, eyeless features.

Two red sea urchins had been crammed into the lidless sockets.

Dan lowered his light, finally, and Mark caught the word smeared across the fake wood of the table, beneath it, a sloppy numeral seven:

_Neer_


	6. Ch. 6

After the scene in the kitchen, Dan was the first to follow Jack in a hasty exit, Mark hot on his heels. Jack was already on the phone, pacing the overgrown walk in the front yard. This may have been the first time Dan had seen him truly serious.

Jack covered the mouthpiece of his cell when he saw Dan and Mark. “I’m calling the state crime lab, Sheriff. Our boys barely held it together at the diner, there’s no chance they could process a scene this messy.”

Mark turned his face to speak into his transceiver. He was pale and his expression tense, but he looked more controlled than Dan felt. “Fontaine, this is Fontaine One, copy?” He began requesting patrols for the neighborhood and the perimeter of the property.

Dan took the moment of respite to work up courage and stare back at the house. He was having trouble thinking of the blood-soaked ruin he’d just been inside as the house he’d grown up in. Trying to mentally overlay his memories with the gore made Dan nauseous.

“Crime lab should be here in an hour,” Jack said from beside him. “The neighbors are going to get suspicious before then, and not just Mrs. Bennett.”

“Mark’s on it,” Dan said.

Jack laughed weakly. “He usually is. This, though? I’m not so sure.”

Doubt from a man who seemed the eternal optimist was too much. The compulsion for Dan to do something, anything, made his palms itch. “Do you have a scene kit in your trunk?”

“The sheriff should, but the team from the crime lab won’t be here for-”

“An hour, I know. Does the kit camera have a high-powered flash?” Dan asked. He ducked under the police tape, back toward the cruiser.

Jack had to trot to keep up with Dan’s longer legs. “That’s standard, sure.”

Dan tried the trunk of Mark’s Charger and found it locked. He waved his arm until Mark looked up at him, still mouthing orders into the transceiver.

“Pop the trunk,” Dan said, tapping the back end of the cruiser.

Mark fished for his keys in the pocket of his slacks. Dan heard and felt the latch click under his fingers, and he gave Mark a thumbs-up in thanks.

The contents of the cruiser’s trunk were jumbled together in a mess of fast food detritus, portable phone chargers, and even a bulletproof vest. Dan resisted his need to introduce some order to the chaos. He dragged a black canvas bag marked with the FPD’s insignia from the recesses of the trunk and unzipped it.

Dan stopped long enough to check that the camera had working batteries and a functional flash, then he was back inside the police tape and headed for the front door.

“Dan?” Jack shouldered the canvas bag and followed him again.

Dan glanced in Mark’s direction, gauging. Mark stood with his back to the cruiser now. He wasn’t on his transceiver anymore, but he was preoccupied with two onlookers craning their necks as they tried to see inside the house. If Dan was going to do something stupid, now would be the time.

He took a deep breath, broke into a run, and dashed up the stoop, leaving Jack in the dust.

“Agent Avidan!”

Mark noticed something was wrong when Jack called out. Dan heard him curse low in his throat, but it was too late now. Dan had already re-entered the house.

Twenty minutes later, Dan came out on the stoop again, taking big gulps of the fresh air. Knowing what he would be dealing with had not made a second pass any easier. If anything, his awareness had made the swampy, coppery smell and the humidity suffocating.

Mark stood at the bottom of the steps, a scowl on his face.

“That was not SOP, Agent,” he said. His voice was rough, but he sounded more upset than angry. Still, switching to formality was a sign that Dan needed to do some serious mediating. He wasn’t in the mood.

“Judging from the lividity and the rigor mortis of the body, this man was either killed simultaneously with or very shortly after your coroner, Sheriff.” Dan looped the camera’s lanyard over his neck and let it hang against his chest. “There is no cool-down period. We don’t have an hour to wait for the crime lab to start our work.”

“Then what do you propose?” Mark folded his arms across his chest.

Dan gestured to the camera. “I took pictures of the scene. They should be clear enough to give us some information to work with. Do you think Jack is capable of holding a perimeter while the lab tags and bags?”

“Well, yeah. There will be uniforms, too.” Mark said, still frowning.

“Good, then we’ll go back to the station and start looking at your scenes in comparison with the Atlanta cases.”

“Looking for similarities?” Mark asked grudgingly, but he fell into step beside Dan, signaling to Jack over one shoulder. Jack threw up his hands, exasperated.

“No, trying to prove this is the Butcher when I am already certain of it is pointless.” Dan climbed into the cruiser’s passenger seat, slipping on his seat belt while Mark started the car. “It’s time to figure out what’s changed.”

 

They didn’t talk on the way to the station. Mark was visibly tense, leaned so far forward he could have hugged the steering column. Dan kept the viewing window on the camera open, cycling through the scene photos he’d taken. Without spotlights, they were a little washed-out, but they would do until he had the official shots from the crime lab.

“You could’ve asked, you know.” Dan looked up and realized the car had stopped.

Mark was watching him, his eyebrows furrowed together with frustration. When he met Dan’s eye, he looked away, switching off the ignition. “Delegating the crime scene to Jack while we began the investigation wasn’t a bad idea, but rushing in without my permission and risking scene contamination was.”

“You would have said no.” Dan shrugged.

“I know this was somewhere you lived, but getting emotional about it is-”

“You don’t think that was a coincidence, do you?” Dan interrupted.

Mark went speechless, his eyes wide as he made the connection. “Your old home in your old hometown. He’s targeting you?”

“I knew,” Dan admitted. It was true; he’d known as soon as he’d connected Mark’s call to Quantico with the letter delivered to his apartment. Jaws was taunting him.

“Sometimes UNSUBs latch onto the BAU. We agents joke about our ‘fan mail’: letters, stuffed animals, even crime scene evidence. Some will get creative and find an agent’s personal address, but this….” Dan had to concentrate to keep his hands from shaking as he turned off the camera. “This is a new level of invasive.”

He began collecting the files he’d scattered in the floorboard when they’d reached the crime scene. “It means this creep is getting into my head. And I’m not getting into his.”

Gentle hands stilled Dan’s, callouses rubbing rough against the skin of his wrists. Mark had bent across the console, and he began helping Dan gather his papers.

“Finding these differences will help us catch him?” Mark asked.

Dan nodded, ignoring his heart hammering in his throat. Mark stacked the last few autopsy pages on the pile in Dan’s lap and sat back up, opening his door. “Then we won’t waste any more time.”

Dan remained composed long enough to get his files and the camera into the conference room, then he excused himself to the bathroom.

“Too much coffee,” he told Mark, tipping him a wry smile.

Dan made it to the nearest stall, slid the lock shut blindly, and fell to his knees, the taste of coffee and bile already shooting up his throat. The thought of shoving his face into a public toilet bowl only made it worse, and Dan was left dry-heaving and shaking long after the vomit stopped.

It was impossible for Dan to tell, when he was like this, what exactly he was feeling. One second he longed to rip off his skin and the next he was shivering, the cold of the porcelain and tile sinking into his bones. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, and the blood pulsing hot and cold through his temples made his head ache.

It had been years since a crime scene had affected Dan like this, like a profiler on his first field run.

Get up, Dan willed himself, disgusted. He rubbed away the tears from his nausea. He was no use to anyone crying on a bathroom floor. Fits like this were why UNSUBs got away. Fits like this were why Dan had put away the wrong serial killer.

Dan got up and pushed open the stall door unsteadily.

It wasn’t going to happen again, Dan promised, splashing cold water from the sink on his face. He swiped three paper towels from the dispenser and scrubbed his cheeks vigorously.

He wasn’t going to let this bastard go free again.

 

Back in the conference room, Mark had already spread out Dan’s files on the table. He was downloading the photos Dan had taken onto a department laptop when Dan returned, the skin on his face still raw from washing.

Mark had donned a pair of glasses Dan hadn’t seen before. He grimaced when he saw Dan staring at them. “I normally wear contacts, but I switch them out when I know I’ll be reading a lot.”

“I think we can go over the basics right now. At least until the crime lab clears the scene and I can autopsy our new body.” Dan paused. “Do we have an ID on him, by the way?”

Mark shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “No. He’s not from Fontaine. I’m sure of that.”

“We’ll have it run through the usual databases then.” Dan made the mental note.

“Total honesty here, I’ve never done actual profiling before. Where do we start?” Mark said.

Dan shooed him away from the laptop, taking his place, and clicked through the photos until he brought up the two he was looking for.

“We start here.”

At the crime scene, Dan had been most careful about photographing the body’s face and the bloody message left on the kitchen table. He left the images side-by-side on the computer and drifted toward the information charts someone had set up along the opposite wall.

“Before, this UNSUB has stayed consistent with his signatures. A single sea urchin in the left hand, black sea glass, and letters sent to law enforcement. Until I can examine the body, I won’t know about the trace, but the eyes are new and so is a message on-scene. Changes like this wouldn’t be made carelessly, which means something triggered them. We need to figure out what he’s trying to convey.”

“What was he saying with his first signatures?” Mark asked.

Dan spied a dry-erase marker and picked it up, laying out the list on the whiteboard as he spoke.  “The letters filled a power-play fantasy the UNSUB was forcing law enforcement to engage with. Withholding identity and using intimate knowledge of sadistic acts is a common manipulation among serial killers; the Zodiac Killer, Jack the Ripper, the Axeman of New Orleans, they all sent taunts to police about their crimes. The Axeman went as far as to try to force law enforcement to bargain with him.

“The sea glass and the urchin were more personal touches for this UNSUB. Sea glass is formed when broken bottles are ground smooth and rounded by ocean waves. Genuine black sea glass is rare because it’s formed from the earliest models of glass models heavily discolored from decades spent in the ocean. The Atlanta task force had a theory that the reformation of something brittle like glass into something dark and valuable appeals to this UNSUB.

“As for the urchin in the left hand, we had several theories. Some pointed out that urchins were the crest for several armies during the Crusades. The left hand could have been chosen because it is the closer to the heart or because it signifies wrongness and evil under some superstitions. My partner was convinced it was a metaphor for the UNSUB’s frustration at being unable to touch the focus of his obsession.”

Dan stepped back from the board, shaking his wrist to alleviate some of the tingling in his hand. He’d already filled half the board with scrawled bullet points. He turned back to face Mark, arms wide. “Any questions so far?”

Mark fidgeted with the knot of his tie, squinting at Dan’s admittedly questionable writing. “So, is it any clearer what he meant by putting urchins in the eyes?”

“Enucleation is rare,” Dan said absently, moving to write again. “It definitely correlates with sexual sadism in psychotic subjects, so that part of the original profile holds true. We can also assume, from the patterns of serial offenders, that this is a way that the UNSUB’s signature has evolved, so its meaning for him is linked to the same meaning as the urchin embedded in the hand. Perhaps he’s moved his frustration from the sense of touch to the sense of sight?”

Dan paced before the whiteboard, rolling the marker cap through his fingers. “He could be mocking us for being unable to see him, find him. That would also explain the message.”

Mark snorted. “Does it? Because ‘7 Neer’ means nothing to me.”

It makes sense to the UNSUB, so we need to make it mean something to us,” Dan said. He wrote the phrase on the board exactly as it appeared on the table, the numeral 7 floating large above the smaller word- if it was a word.

“It could be a misspelling of ‘near’, as in he is near to us?” Mark volunteered.

Dan shook his head. “No, this UNSUB is educated and attentive to detail. He only leaves what trace he wants us to have, he would never misspell part of a message. No, the word ‘neer’ specifically means something to him.”

He traced the phrase idly, thinking. “Seven is a powerful number in superstition and in religion. It’s the number for the divine in the Bible.”

“And neer?” Mark prompted.

“All I can think of is ne’er, a contraction of the word never.” Dan frowned, stepping back to stand beside Mark. “Never seven could mean the UNSUB believes his victims are never divine? That’s highly speculative, though.”

Dan jumped slightly when his phone began to go off in his pocket. Working Man: Suzy’s id. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

He didn’t answer his phone until he was in the hall. “Hello?” Dan watched Mark studying the autopsy files through the narrow window of the door.

“You have a second body and I have to find out when North Carolina’s crime lab reports it?” Dan had to pull the phone away from his ear Suzy was so furious. “I thought you wanted help with this case, Avidan.”

“Things got complicated.”

“Then uncomplicated them!” Suzy inhaled slowly, and finally Dan could bring the phone back to his ear.

“I really am sorry, Boss. I just got back from the scene not ten minutes ago. You know I wouldn’t leave you out of the loop from spite.”

“I know,” Suzy agreed grudgingly. She made a dismissive sound. “Either way, what’s done is done. This body has the board’s attention. They’ve given me orders to call you back to active hours and to send another agent down to join you.”

Dan straightened, turning his attention fully to the conversation. “Who are you sending? Kevin?”

“He’s still working those kidnappings on the Mexican border.”

“Jon, then?”

“He retired last month, Dan, Christ. I’m sending Ross.”

Dan groaned. “Oh my god. Oh my god, please tell me you’re joking.”

“He’s got a keen eye. That will be useful when you’ve looked at those photos too much.”

“How many complaints from local law enforcement has he gotten, again?”

“Too many,” Suzy muttered. She spoke up again. “Good thing you’re making nice with Sheriff Mark, then. You can tell him what to expect.”

“Yeah,” Dan ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I’ll go ahead and put out the APB while I’m at it.”


	7. Ch. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I know this chapter is fairly short, but I have a friend flying into town this week, so I was unable to post on my regular schedule. However, I'm going to make it up to you! Next week there will be two updates- one of which I'm very much looking forward to~
> 
> Again, I apologize for this hiccup in my schedule, and thank you so much for reading!

When Dan came back into the conference room, he told Mark what Mark already expected; the second body had the FBI’s interest. They were sending a second agent down to assist Dan in profiling, though Dan oddly did not seem enthusiastic about the idea.

“Won’t it be easier to locate this guy with another profiler?” Mark asked.

“Ross is good, especially at shaking up a case and looking at evidence differently,” Dan agreed. “He’s just… a little difficult to get along with. You’ll see what I mean.”

He changed topics quickly and picked up the files he’d brought in from his hotel room, the unofficial details of the Atlanta cases.

Unofficial files were common, even in a small town with a low crime rate like Fontaine. Mark had several cases where he hadn’t put the full story in the official report. Sometimes it was done for victim privacy, sometimes public discretion, and sometimes it just made the case less complicated to leave the details out. Part of being a cop was deciding which details were and were not relevant to the report.

With the Atlanta cases relevant again, Mark was glad Dan had thought to keep personal files on the investigation. _Meticulous_ personal files on the investigation. Dan talked for so long that his voice grew hoarse, but he pressed on.

He kept notes more like a cop than like a profiler, Mark noted. Dan rarely had to glance down at the sheaf of papers in his hands for a timeframe or a statistic of physical evidence. He read the psychological profile from the file slowly, line by line, then rattled off the numbers from the last victim’s toxicology report without pausing for breath. Maybe it was a medical examiner thing.

Dan loosened up when he covered familiar territory as well. Mark could see the tension in his shoulders ease marginally as Dan scrawled more notes and diagrams on the whiteboard- Mark hoped they were not meant for his benefit, because Dan’s writing was atrocious. By the time they reached the last file, the first victim, Dan was sitting cross-legged on the conference table, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair escaping its braid, aided in its efforts every time Dan pushed his hair out of his eyes.

When the files were exhausted, Mark pulled out the log of factory workers Rhett had left with Pearl at the front desk. He’d hoped to spend time poring over it, but Dan skimmed it once and shook his head.

“It was a good idea, Sheriff, but none of these names came up in the Atlanta investigation,” he said.

“For sure?” Mark flipped through the six pages of names and addresses incredulously. “There are like 300 names here. You remember the case that well?”

He was surprised to see Dan hesitate for a moment. “The names that I do recognize were from high school. Still, it can’t hurt to double check. Could you ask the foremen if any of their crews moved to town recently? That list didn’t include previous addresses.”

“Right,” Mark said. He pulled the cap of a pen off with his teeth and made a note on his palm.

He was capping the pen when he heard raised voices from the front of the station.

 “One of the new officers might need help processing an arrest.” Mark left the pen rolling on the table and went to the conference room door, leaning into the hall.

“No,” Dan said, resigned. He propelled himself off the table and brushed past Mark at the door. There was a brief, awkward moment where Mark found himself eye-to chest with Dan. “No, that would be my partner.”

Mark tucked his glasses discreetly into his shirt pocket and followed Dan out into the lobby. For a moment, he believed he’d hit closer to the truth than Dan.

A kid was leaning against the front desk, chin propped up on one hand, smiling hopefully at Pearl. Jack stood behind him, arms folded, his mouth twisted small. Mark thought it was in distaste until he realized Jack was doing his best not to laugh.

Then the kid saw Dan and he upped the wattage of his smile, spreading his arms wide. He wasn’t actually a kid, Mark saw that now, but the mistake was easy to make. His face was boyish and thin, and he wore a red flannel layered over a black undershirt and dark jeans much like any contemporary high school student. The only thing that marked him as Dan’s partner and fellow profiler was the FBI badge hung on the chain around his neck.

“Danny!” He cried, making a beeline for Dan.

“Agent O’Donovan.” Dan greeted him. He stuck his hand out to Ross automatically just in time for Ross to step past and hug him tightly.

Mark had to hide his smile as Dan tried subtly to extricate himself from Ross’s grasp.

“I forgot my ID in the car and the desk lady wouldn’t accept my badge,” Ross said cheerfully.

Pearl was unmoved. “I told you, boy. No ID, no entry.”

Ross waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever, water under the canal.”

He turned to Mark, and Mark was relieved when Ross offered a hand to shake instead of coming in for a hug.

“You must be Sheriff Fischbach. I already met your deputy here,” he said, nodding in Jack’s direction.

“Ah, right.” Mark looked at Jack. “Was the crime lab done with the scene?”

“No, I left Thatcher in charge. He’s keeping the neighborhood at bay until the lab can pack it in for now. They already sent the body to Heston’s,” Jack said. “I’ve been called out to the ‘Steads.”

The ‘Steads was a local trailer park, a common source of noise and wild animal complaints. It mostly housed workers from the town factory.

“Check on Thatcher when you’re done,” Mark said.

“I still need ID, boy!” Pearl screeched, making Mark jump.

Ross had slipped by, up the hallway. Dan walked beside him, talking low and fast. He noticed Mark over his shoulder and grimaced, as if to say _I told you he was like this_.

“Please, Pearl, don’t call federal agents ‘boy’,” Mark pleaded, hurrying to catch up. “I’ll vouch for him, just let me handle the BAU for now.”

“You know best, Sheriff,” Pearl sniffed.


	8. Ch. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little late, but there's another section coming in 24 hours! I am definitely back from hiatus, hello again~

Once separated from anyone he could really showboat for, Ross was much easier to deal with. Dan caught him up as quickly as he could, skipping over a few of the finer details Ross could pull from the unofficial files.

He’d read the official reports, that much was apparent from what Ross already knew. He inspected the case boards up close while Dan spoke, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses. It may have been Dan’s imagination, but Ross seemed much calmer than he had with previous cases they worked together.

Mark had slipped quietly into the conference room behind them; he was leaning beside the door, quiet.

“-So at this point, we’re worried about the rapidly decreasing cool down period and the evolving signature.” Dan concluded, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Ross finished his study of the whiteboard and straightened, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “No new observations from the new crime scenes?”

“Well, I haven’t done the second autopsy yet, I was planning on doing that tonight.” Dan glanced at Mark, who simply nodded.

“That’s not what I meant,” Ross said. He turned and gave Dan a curious look, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “This isn’t like you at all, Danny.”

Dan shot him a warning look; Ross knew he hated being called nicknames on the job. “Do you see something important?”

“The first Fontaine victim is important- very important.” Ross motioned for Dan to throw him a marker and used his sleeve to smear away enough of Dan’s notes to start a new list.

“If this is the same killer your team faced in Atlanta, this is the first kill since he outsmarted the cops. What kind of killer wins at killing and then stops?”

Dan frowned; that question had been eating at him as well. Ross continued, “Also, the coroner is the only outlier for the UNSUB’s victimology. That’s not a coincidence. If we can figure out why the UNSUB killed Fontaine’s coroner, we can find him.”

“What about the message left at the second crime scene?” Mark interrupted.

It was the first time he’d caught Ross’s attention since the lobby; Dan could practically see the wheels turning in Ross’s head as he sized Mark up.

“What message?” Ross asked, scanning the notes on the whiteboard. “There was a message?”

“The number seven,” Dan said. “With the word n-e-e-r underneath it.”

Ross rewrote it on the board as Dan spelled it, then underlined the word and stepped back to study it, rolling the marker between his fingers. He was always filled with nervous energy when he was thinking; Ross bounced on the balls of his feet even when he stood still.

“’Neer’? It’s not English, French, Spanish, or German. It _does_ mean ‘down’ in Dutch.” Ross mused.

Dan saw Mark lean forward, suddenly tense, “Seven down? Is he saying he’s killed seven people?”

“We know of six. It’s possible he killed one we don’t know about yet. Maybe his first.” Ross shrugged. Mark looked so stricken Dan couldn’t resist shooting Ross another warning look. He smirked in response.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Dan said, frustrated. “Neer could still mean something else.”

“You’re right, of course,” Ross scrawled his translation on the board. He went to tap the marker against his teeth and inadvertently marked a line down his bottom lip, but he was too deep in thought to notice. “It could be a Romanization of a Koreanic language. That would take time to go through- each language has like three different systems for translating into the English alphabet and all of them are confusing.”

“How long would it take you to check them?” Dan asked.

“Most people would need a day to figure it out, there’s a lot of Google translating. But me?” Ross grinned. “Well, still about a day. I don’t know Korean or Turkish or Japanese that well.”

“Okay, so work on the translations for now. I need to go do the autopsy, and Mark, you were going to check with the factory roster?” Dan said.

“Right, I’ll call Link now,” Mark fumbled as he dug his phone out of his pocket. He looked relieved to have something to do.

“Hey, Dan, there’s something else you need to think about,” Ross said. He spoke low, his voice pitched to barely reach Dan.

“Then tell me so I can think about it,” Dan said, nonplussed.

“Call North Branch. Ask to interview Haywood.”

“What good will that do? The creepy fuck never said anything, not the whole time he’s been in custody or in jail.” Dan frowned.

“As long as he didn’t talk to us, we treated him like the Sea Glass Butcher, and so did everyone else,” Ross said. “Now that we know the real UNSUB is still out there-”

“He has nothing to gain,” Dan finished. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought to interview Haywood himself; it must have shown on his face.

“Look, dude, this case is getting to you,” Ross said. “Half the things I’ve told you, you would know for yourself if you were less freaked out.”

“I’m not freaked out,” Dan said, annoyed.

Ross gave him a look that clearly said _bullshit_. “He left a body in your old house. He knows he’s freaking you out, and you need to know it, too. Otherwise, you’re going to be useless.”

“Thanks,” Dan snapped.

Ross tapped Dan’s nose with the end of the marker and turned away. “Not a problem, partner."

 

Dan left Mark and Ross working together in the conference room hesitantly. He was loathe to leave Ross alone with any local contact, but Dan had to get the autopsy done as soon as possible. Leaving the two of them working through paperwork seemed like the best bet he was going to get. Mark let him borrow his cruiser to get to the Heston’s.

At the funeral home, the receptionist knew him by name this time, and she let him into the morgue without a fuss. Dan found John Doe still in a body bag and the autopsy tools where Dan had left them the night before, in their proper drawers.

Despite the enucleation, which was new, Dan quickly found that the rest of the wounds on the body were identical to the UNSUB’s previous victims. They were ante mortem and calculated to inflict pain without major injury. Death came slowly and painfully. Dan had luckily remembered to throw his tablet in his satchel that morning; he used it now to take photos of the wound patterns. He made a mental note to ask Ross what he made of the distinct shapes made by the cuts; they could have been abstracts of a rune or symbol.

The enucleation was as clean as it had seemed from Dan’s superficial examination at the scene. The lack of swelling in the sockets or blood on the sea urchins meant the trauma happened postmortem, so this part of the ritual didn’t have a sadistic motive.

With the coroner tools properly organized this time, Dan moved through the autopsy much faster, to his relief. It still took two hours, but that was just being thorough.

Dan decided to send the trace evidence to the crime lab from the police station so he wouldn’t have to pay the receptionist for postage again. It also gave him an opportunity to make a call in the car. He didn’t know the North Branch administration number by heart, but it was on his speed dial.

He listened to the hold music through a few lights, then the satisfying click as someone actually took his call.

“Todd. North Branch.” Jeremy Todd always sounded like he was chewing glass over the phone, and on a good day, he looked like he was chewing it too. On a bad day, he looked like a really pissed off bear.

“Officer Todd. I can’t really say it’s good to be calling you again,” Dan said hesitantly. He wasn’t really sure how to proceed with a request to interview a man who was known for his silence. Then, he didn’t have to.

“Shit, Avidan, I was going to call you this evening. I rang down to the BAU and they said you were on vacation. You chose a crappy time, I can tell you that.”

“Why were you trying to reach me?” Dan asked, sitting a little straighter in the cruiser’s seat. The top of his head brushed the roof.

“Lewis said you called earlier this week about Haywood, asking if he had escaped. He swears up and down he didn’t mention anything to Haywood- hell, no one talks to that creep- but now Haywood is asking for you.”

Dan braked involuntarily. Luckily, he was close enough to the station to swing into a parking spot. “Asking. Haywood is talking? Asking for me?”

“I’m just as confused, Special Agent. Frankly, I don’t like surprises, especially from convicted serial killers. You got an idea what he wants to tell you after five years?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” Dan said. He undid his seatbelt slowly. “But it’s sensitive, Todd. Not phone business. When can I set up an interview?”

Todd didn’t sound happy to be left out of the loop, but his adherence to authority won out. “Earliest I can get you is two days from now, Thursday morning. It takes time to set up the security details.”

“That’s plenty early, Officer Todd. I appreciate this.” Dan was careful to be clear he considered this a favor. It would ease Todd’s irritation about the secrecy to feel he had done something personal for a federal agent.

Jack’s car pulled up in the parking spot beside him as Dan hung up the phone. If he was just getting back from the ‘Steads, it must have been one hell of a call. Dan braced himself for more of the man’s cheer.

Instead, Jack looked him up and down speculatively when Dan climbed out of the cruiser. Dan realized, belatedly, that the vehicle was not his own.

“I borrowed it to go to the funeral home,” Dan said awkwardly. “It was the sheriff’s idea.”

“Right, right.” Jack nodded. “You got the time?”

Taken aback, Dan glanced at his cell phone, still in his hand. “Just after five.”

Jack started toward the station purposefully. Dan thought he wanted to file a report before the end of his shift, but it turned out he was headed the same place Dan was: the conference room.

While Dan was gone, Ross had opened his laptop and borrowed a legal pad from somewhere in the station. Scraps of translations were scattered around him at the conference table. Mark sat with him, skimming through some of Ross’s notes.

“I still think it could be Baltic,” he said as Dan and Jack slipped into the room.

Ross looked up first. “Any revelations in the autopsy?”

“The move from hand to eye sockets proved conclusively that whatever ritual the urchins are a part of, it’s not sadistic, but that’s about it.” Dan sighed. “I also set up the interview at North Branch. Any luck here?”

“It’s not a Koreanic language of any kind,” Ross said. He looked frustrated; Dan knew he wasn’t used to not having answers. “I began stripping the word down to linguistic basics, looking for a clue of origin. I still think it’s a Romanization, but it seems to be of a much older language. I can’t even tell if it derived from Greek or Latin. Really, it’s like looking for a word needle in a word haystack.”

“And the factory roster?” Dan turned to Mark.

Mark shook his head. “You were right. No transfers from Atlanta.”

All three jumped when Jack clapped his hands together.

“Ross, now you had a good lunch at the diner on your way into town, yeah?” He asked.

“Well, yeah, the chicken was good,” Ross said. He gave Dan an inquisitive look, but Dan didn’t know where this was going either.

“Well, Mark, Dan,” Jack turned to them, his expression serene, but Dan didn’t quite like the look in his eye. “What did you eat today?”

“I skipped lunch, I’ll grab something on my way to the hotel tonight,” Dan said dismissively. That seemed to be the trigger.

“Oh no, we’re not starting this again,” Jack announced. He shooed Mark out of his chair and pushed both him and Dan toward the door of the conference room. "I can handle the human cryptex here, the two of you need to eat. And for Christ’s sake, talk about something besides police work.”

“Hey, this is important work,” Dan protested, irritable. He was not used to being pushed around, and definitely not by local cops. He would be damned if he let it start happening now.

Jack was implacable. “Work that will get done with or without you, hotshot.”

“Promise me,” he said, and his stern look was for Mark alone.

Mark, in a very un-sheriff-like move, was turning bright red and looking anywhere except at Dan. “Thirty minutes,” he said loudly.

“We’ll go grab something to eat, but we’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

Before he could argue, Dan found himself kicked out of the police station with the local sheriff at his side and a bag of trace evidence still tucked under one arm.


	9. Ch. 9

Dan realized soon enough that he hadn’t literally been banned from the police station, despite Jack’s insistence. He went back inside long enough to leave the bag of evidence with Pearl at the front desk.

When he stepped outside again, the chill of an early autumn afternoon greeted him, a faint breeze toying with his hair.

Mark stood at the foot of the steps, looking up at him. In the light of dusk, Dan could trace the lines of tiredness on Mark’s face; today had perhaps been too much for a small town sheriff.

“You could drive again, if you like,” Mark offered.

Dan tossed him the cruiser keys. “I think I’ll call shotgun. Have anywhere in mind for dinner?”

Mark unlocked the car and they both climbed in, settling while Mark made deliberating sounds. “There’s a Shoney’s on the far side of the high school now. How does that sound?”

“Better than fast food,” Dan shrugged. He remembered the litter of fast food trash he’d seen in the trunk of the cruiser and continued hastily. “Not that there’s anything wrong with fast food.”

Mark laughed. “It’s fine, I know fast food’s bad for me. It’s just more convenient. I’ll probably be saying that right up to my first heart attack.”

If Mark was due for heart failure, it didn’t show. The only place Mark was broad was his shoulders, where his uniform strained tight against supple muscles. Dan had always been partial to nice shoulders.

Dan knew where his thoughts were going because this was how it always started. He knew the psychology of it; when faced with death, individuals reaffirmed their existence by forging intimacy at the first opportunity. Dan’s awareness of where the urge was coming from didn’t make it any easier to ignore.

Besides, his thoughts about Mark were unusually distracting.

“You held yourself together well at the scene this morning,” Dan said. He spoke a little too loudly for the cab of the cruiser, but he didn’t check to see if Mark noticed; Dan stared intently out at the streets passing by.

“I would have been better if I wasn’t worried about Ms. Bennett nosing in on that gore fest at any moment,” Mark said. They were passing the high school.

Dan laughed. “I’m surprised she didn’t notice something was wrong before your deputy did. She caught my sister and me sneaking into the house after a party once. Our parents grounded us for a month.”

“We get calls from her Neighborhood Watch at least once a week, usually about loud music or Mr. Goldman refusing to cut his hedges.” Mark shook his head. “I bet she doesn’t stop asking about this for months.”

“Are you kidding? Small towns talk about murders like this for years.” Dan finally dared to look at Mark again as they pulled into the Shoney’s parking lot. The neon sign was already on, but letters had flickered out; technically, the sign read “honey’.”

“What’s today again?” Mark asked, switching off the ignition and unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Tuesday,” Dan said.

Mark grinned, pleased. “Hey, their burgers are on special tonight.”

“Isn’t Shoney’s a buffet place?” Dan asked, looking at the brick building uncertainly as he ducked out of the cruiser.

“Yes, but I can never eat enough to justify it. Their burgers are amazing, though.”

He was startled when Mark came up behind him, clapping a hand cheerfully on his shoulder. “Come on, we’ll decide inside.”

The interior of the restaurant was warm, the walls covered in sports paraphernalia and art from students in the local school district. The kitchen and the buffet were directly beyond the small lobby where customers could wait to be seated. To the right, just beyond a partition, was a section of booths upholstered in red pleather, and in the back, Dan could just see a room of regular tables, neatly ensconced behind a set of French doors that were propped open. The lighting, like at the Fontaine Inn, came from small lamps situated over every table, warm and less intrusive than fluorescents.

The sound of sizzling fryers, hot pans steaming as dishwashers ran cold water over them, and waitresses shouting orders was distracting, but Dan could still faintly hear the clink of silverware against plates and the warm chatter of diners.

It was the smell that truly hit him, though. As Dan stepped through the front doors of Shoney’s the smell of country cooking unlike any he’d had since he’d moved out of North Carolina washed over him, and Dan was suddenly all too aware of just how hungry he was. Normally, Dan avoided fried foods, but Southern cooking was hard to turn aside. When made right, there was an element of home, genuine, filling warmth.

Dan knew right then he was going to order the buffet. He had to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand discreetly to be totally sure he wasn’t drooling.

Mark greeted the host by name, of course, and soon Derek the host was weaving expertly past customers at the buffet, leading Dan and Mark toward the booth section of the restaurant. He seated them in the back corner and left them with two menus. It was a favorite spot at any restaurant for Mark, Dan suspected. They were beside a window, though a quick peek through the blinds showed Dan nothing but the Shoney’s parking lot.

Their waitress was upon them in an instant. This time, Dan recognized her, though he could not remember her name; they’d gone to high school together. Her nametag said Irene.

“Do you know what you would like to drink yet?” Irene asked with a sweet smile. Like the host, she seemed to address Mark directly.

“Water for me, please,” Mark said. “And I’d like my usual burger, Irene, if you don’t mind me putting the order in now.”

“Not a problem, Sheriff.” Irene didn’t even blink; Dan wondered exactly how often Mark ate here.

Irene slipped an order pad from her apron as she turned to Dan. “And what about you, sweetheart- need a moment to look at the menu?”

“Um, I’ll also take a water,” Dan said, reaching automatically for the huge laminated trifold when she mentioned it. “But I’m going to get the buffet.”

“Excellent, less work for me,” Irene winked at him and put her order pad away unmarked.

She took the two menus and sped away for the kitchens before Dan could formulate any kind of banter. He focused instead on Mark, though he must have still looked slightly baffled.

“Irene loves seeing people from high school.” Mark chuckled, leaning back in the booth. The gold lighting and the red upholstery behind him worked well, bringing the umber streaks out in his eyes. Dan realized he’d braced his elbows on the tabletop as he leaned closer to look and dropped them immediately.

“Most of our class did move away. She had a field day last year when the reunion brought everyone back for a weekend.” Mark paused and jerked his head toward the buffet. “You should fix a plate now before the shift change at the factory, or you’ll be fighting twenty men in greasy overalls for your biscuits.”

“Right,” Dan got up from the table hastily, ignoring his paranoia that Mark’s gaze followed him away. It was time to relax, Dan told himself firmly as he grabbed a plate. As if cued by Mark’s warning, he heard a mix of rough voices from the lobby area, but he tuned it out, letting his muscles loosen in the warm steam condensing against the glass partitions of the buffet.

Jack had had a point when he said Dan and Mark needed to stop and eat, not just for survival, but to step away from the headspace these murders were putting them in. Maybe if Dan ate something warm, sat still, and shared a few jokes with Mark for a while, he would be able to come back to the case with a head cleared of agitations, both from his work and from Mark.

At the moment, Dan was too hungry to even make good choices about what he wanted on his plate; his stomach demanded the entire buffet.

Irene had already come and gone from the table by the time Dan returned. Surprisingly, Mark’s meal had arrived with their drinks. Mark was sipping on his water idly, one foot jiggling against the base of the table. He didn’t pick up his burger until Dan was seated again.

“I’m sorry we didn’t break earlier. I get so busy sometimes, food seems like an alien concept,” Dan said, unrolling his silverware from its napkin prison.

Mark shook his head, overcoming an enormous mouthful of burger. “I’m the same way. The last time Jack took a vacation, he hid an alarm in my office that went off at noon and six every day.”

Dan arched an eyebrow, letting his first bite of macaroni melt over his tongue. Oh, yes, real Southern food was something he missed in Quantico. “That seems kind of extreme, even for a guy looking out for his boss.”

Mark grew red, but tried to play the question off, his tone casual. “I’ve known him since we attended the police academy, and we dated for a while. It didn’t work out, but we’ve stayed friends. He’s seen me through my election as sheriff and a lot worse.”

Dan had been right about the touch he’d seen in the conference room, then. He was pleased- pleased with his observation skills, of course. Though, the dark tone when Mark said “a lot worse” left Dan even more curious.

He cleaned out his macaroni and dove straight into a pile of lima beans; his hunger had only been piqued.

Mark, on the other hand, had already slowed down halfway through his burger. “It must be rough on you to spend so much time traveling the states for your job.”

“No, no, I don’t really date.” Dan laughed, looking up from his plate. He saw at once that he’d taken Mark’s question in the wrong direction. “Uh, well, I don’t travel as much as you might think. A lot of the BAU’s work is done from Quantico, and I’ve been gradually shifting to a practice as an ME at the FBI Academy.”

“That’s a pretty fast climb up the FBI ladder, isn’t it?” Mark said.

“Yes, but I’m a pretty good ME,” Dan quipped. It was a question he got a lot. After a moment, he grew serious. “That sounds conceited, but I am a good medical examiner. This case doesn’t exactly put me in the best light, I know.”

Mark waved a hand dismissively. “Jack’s right, let’s not talk about the case. That’s not a reflection of you.”

“Oh? Then what is?” Dan picked up a roll. He’d been skeptical about whether he even could relax tonight, but this was working. Maybe all he’d really needed was to be forcibly still and down some food.

Mark shrugged at his question. “I don’t know. Your favorite band? What you do in your spare time? The way you charged in to take photos this afternoon said a lot.”

“Rush. If I had spare time, I would probably hit karaoke bars more often, and I _thought_ we weren’t discussing the case.” Dan wagged his fork coyly.

Mark laughed, caught off-guard by the rapid fire of responses; it was a good, full sound. Warm like the light from the lamp overhead or the glint in his eyes when their corners turned up in a smile.

The heat from the food in his stomach spread through his chest, and suddenly Dan knew he was testing a lot more than his observation skills in Fontaine. The case was far from his mind, his adrenaline gone, but Dan still itched to let his fingers explore the way the muscles flexed in Mark's shoulders. He wanted to know what Mark sounded like when teeth found the soft point where his jaw met his throat. Dan's thoughts, stark and strong, must have shown in his face because Mark stopped laughing, watching him with an unspoken question in his expression.

Dan let a slow smile spread over his face, and this time, he didn’t stop himself from leaning forward. “So what, Rush never struck a chord with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE I'M BACK WITH LONG CHAPTER. Fun fact: this Shoney's is totally based on the Shoney's in my hometown and I am definitely craving some after this.


End file.
